


The Outcast

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Hermione Granger, Angst and Humor, Auror Harry Potter, Eventual Romance, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Muggle Life, Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Remix, Spells & Enchantments, Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: Draco and Hermione are work colleagues and also exes.  She's ready for a major change  that will take her out of the crazy work environment that has driven her life for too long. Draco's not ready to let her go.My couple: Walter Burns and Hildy Johnson from the 1940 screwball comedy film, "His Girl Friday," starring Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell.  The movie is based on the original play, "The Front Page."





	1. Chapter 1

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/48769384417/in/album-72157710997113207/)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


August 2011

Funny, isn’t it, how life turns out sometimes. You think you’ve established a definite direction with unerring clarity and purpose. No ambiguities. Your focus is unwavering. You’ve dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. And then life throws you a curve ball, as the Americans say; suddenly, everything you think you know goes cheerfully to shit in front of your eyes. 

Such was the sentiment that Hermione Granger found herself considering as she stepped out of the cavernous hearth on the fourth floor of the Daily Prophet building, where she was the star reporter. The Floo network had been a bit funky today, and it had taken three tries to get herself to her chosen destination. 

“Maybe the powder’s gone stale,” she mused, walking briskly down the corridor towards the editor-in-chief’s office, heels clicking smartly on the tiled floor. “Must remember to replace it.” 

She was a woman on a mission today, and the very thought of her purpose in seeking out her boss fortified her resolve. Being perfectly truthful, it left her a bit wobbly in the knees as well. But really, she reasoned, her self-righteous ire rising, why should it? She’d done her bit for the past six years without a single complaint or hesitation, even when she’d been asked to go out on some pretty dangerous limbs for the sake of a story. In fact, she’d prided herself on her sheer nerve and willingness to take some fairly serious risks. She’d never been able to turn her boss down – he’d always had the ability to twist her round his little finger, even when her common sense was screaming to run in the opposite direction - not even when he’d asked her to take the biggest risk of them all. 

She’d accepted, and they’d married. Two years later, they were in divorce court, said curve ball leaving Hermione smarting from the experience. Hard to tell what her ex was feeling, as he was extraordinarily talented at subterfuge, especially of a personal nature. In the intervening three years, her sanity restored, she’d thrown herself back into the journalism game with renewed vigour, but with the proviso that things between them would remain strictly professional. Never again would she allow herself to fall victim to his charms. ‘And really,’ she reflected with a small huff, ‘it’s all just cheap flash with him anyway.’ Good looks, a dazzling smile when he was in the mood to bestow it or when it could get him what he wanted, a razor-sharp brain, and a boatload of deviousness and cunning. What was there of genuine substance, really, apart from his dedication to work? 

Now there was a question worth exploring. What indeed? It was precisely because she’d found the answer to that question that she was marching into her ex’s office to give him the ultimatum she’d been rehearsing for the past hour.

Reaching his office door, she paused for just a microsecond, and then knocked on the glass. Through it, she could make out his outline, sitting in the desk chair. His feet were up on the ledge beneath the large picture window, his long legs comfortably extended, his back to the door.

“Come!” came the reply – more of a bark, really – from the inner sanctum.

Turning the brass doorknob, Hermione pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside. She stood by the desk for several seconds, waiting, and finally cleared her throat.

Swivelling around, Draco Malfoy set his feet on the floor and the palms of his hands firmly on the desk before him. One eyebrow rose in patient amusement, and he nodded slightly, gesturing towards the chair next to which Hermione now stood.

“No need for formalities between us, Granger. Sit. What can I do for you? Do I take it that your presence here means you’re ready to accept your new assignment? Because if you are, I –”

“No!” she cut in hastily. “That is to say,” she continued, taking a calming breath, “I’ve come to submit my letter of resignation.” With that, she pulled an envelope out of her tote bag and set it on the desk.

There, she’d said it. Quickly, her eyes darted to his face to gauge his reaction. But if she’d expected fireworks, he disappointed her. In fact, he was so calm as to be nearly wooden in his response. 

He gazed at her nonchalantly, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. “Any particular reason for this decision?” 

“Yes! As a matter of fact, Malfoy, I’m leaving the newspaper business altogether, and… and… well, you might as well know. I’m getting married!”

Draco Malfoy’s expression remained calm, though if one peered closely enough, a very small tic near his left eye had begun to jump. Nine people out of ten would never have seen it. But Hermione knew him better than most.

“Married,” he repeated flatly. “Is that so? And who is the fortunate bloke? Anyone I know?”

Hermione felt herself stiffen as the moment she’d dreaded arrived. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin almost defiantly.

“Yes. As a matter of fact,” she found herself repeating, “it’s Ron. Weasley,” she added lamely, and immediately felt herself blushing.

At that, the beginnings of a small, insouciant grin curled up the edges of Draco’s mouth. “Oh yes?” he murmured. “Weasley, is it? I thought the two of you had called it a day years ago.”

“We did, not that it’s any of your business,” Hermione snapped. “Just because you’re my ex-husband, that doesn’t give you the right to poke your nose into my affairs three years after our divorce!”

“Which I never wanted, I might remind you!” he countered. “Just as I never wanted to get married in the first place! Ridiculously antiquated tribal custom!”

“Oh! So that’s the reason _you_ wouldn’t give _me_ any peace until I’d agreed to run off with you and elope! Because you _didn’t_ want to get married. Yes, I see! Makes perfect sense!” Hermione let out a small, very unladylike snort and began pacing around the office. “Well, for your information, Draco Malfoy, Ron has been a perfect gentleman. He affords me the courtesies I never got from you. He actually pays attention to me and listens when I speak!”

Now it was Draco’s turn to snort derisively. “Not that he ever understands a word of what you say, I’ll wager!”

“Of course he does!” Hermione bristled. “Most of the time, anyway!” She decided, in all fairness to Ron, not to mention the fact that a good deal of the time, she did have to simplify her vocabulary a tad, and even then, he didn’t always get the point. 

Draco wasn’t convinced. “Courtesies? Are we talking about the same Weasley?” he smirked, rolling his eyes. “The original Bottomless Pit? I remember how disgusted you used to be at meals when we were at school, Granger!”

Hermione heaved an irritated sigh. “Not what I meant by 'courtesies,' and you know it! Besides, he’s not like that anymore, not often at least. And he genuinely cares about me. He does, truly!” she insisted, at Draco’s look of unmitigated scepticism. “He’ll give me the peaceful life I could never have with you. And children! That’s what I want now.”

“You? I don’t buy it. Not in a million years. The newspaper business is in your blood! What do you reckon you’re looking for anyway, a boring little cottage with a garden and a white picket fence? A kid in dirty nappies, whinging for Mummy and leaving sticky fingerprints on the walls? You’re fooling yourself, Granger. That’s not for you, a woman with your brains and drive! I bet that inside of a year, you’ll be standing right where you are now, asking for your old job back. Seriously. A Galleon says you will. On second thought, make it ten. Well?”

He gazed steadily at her, the provocative gleam in his eyes challenging her. He’d thrown the gauntlet down. 

She tossed her head defiantly. “I’ll take that bet, Malfoy! Well, the single galleon, anyway. Ten’s a bit steep, and I’m not exactly rolling in money like you are.”

That wasn’t entirely fair, and she knew it, as Draco had essentially cut himself off from his father’s wealth years earlier, preferring to live independently and make his own way. Still, as city editor of the most influential wizarding newspaper, he did all right for himself.

Draco stretched luxuriantly and got to his feet. “Agreed. So... where’s the lucky man, then?” 

“Oh, he’s meeting me downstairs in the lobby,” Hermione replied quickly. “I’d better get going. He’ll be waiting. Well… goodbye, Draco.”

He stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Hermione. I wish you well.”

His hand was smooth, the skin warm and dry against her palm. He held her hand captive for a long moment, seeming reluctant to let go. Hermione smiled, swallowing down a sudden rush of… what? Strangely, she couldn’t put a name to what she was feeling quite out of the blue. Finally, she raised her eyes to his cool, grey gaze. 

Draco grinned, opening his arms. “What about a farewell hug for your ex, then?”

Stepping reluctantly into his embrace, Hermione stood there, stiff and awkward, knowing it was probably a mistake and yet... for just a moment, breathing in his very familiar scent, clean and fresh like rain and new-mown grass, the fact that it was a mistake was forgotten. Everything was forgotten, even the man who waited for her five floors down. It was with some effort that she recovered herself, guilt and confusion rearing their discomfiting heads, and stepped away, the real world rushing back in. 

“See you around, Malfoy,” she said lightly, turning to leave.

He nodded, watching silently as she exited his office, her leather tote bag slung rakishly over her shoulder. And then he grinned the grin of a man who had a secret he was enjoying immensely.

_Sooner than you realise, darling_.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
`  
Ron Weasley waited by the reception desk, slouching and leaning on one elbow, an expectant grin on his face as he watched Hermione approach. Straightening, he opened his arms and gathered her into a bear hug.

Laughing slightly, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and extricated herself. “Ron, this is my place of business. Let’s keep our personal lives outside, yeah?”

“Soon-to-be-EX-place of business for you, love,” he reminded her with obvious satisfaction, and gave her a wink. “You’ll be busy enough with other things before too long.”

“Yes, I expect so,” Hermione echoed. 

It really was for the best. It was what she’d wanted for a very long time. And it was something that would never have happened with Malfoy. He was far too self-involved and work driven, too caught up in the adrenaline rush of the next story, and the next, and the next after that. Half the time, she couldn’t even be certain if he remembered she was in the room – that is, until he realised he needed her to chase down an interview or write the copy. Their marriage and their professional lives were one and the same entity, the lines of distinction non-existent. She had grown sick and tired of being married to her job _and_ her editor. There was really no husband in the picture, not the sort she wanted and needed anyway.__

_ _This was the right decision, she was sure of it. Ron had loved her for years. Smiling brightly, she reached into her tote bag, fishing about for a moment or two. A frown knitted her eyebrows together._ _

_ _“Where’s –” she began, puzzled. And then, in a flash, she knew. The frown turned into a small, knowing, rather grim smile. “Hang on, Ron. I’ve got to go back upstairs for a minute. I must have left my… something… up there. Back in a minute!” _ _

_ _Leaving him standing there, nonplussed, she sprinted towards the lift, where several people were already waiting impatiently._ _

_ _The old lift creaked and groaned its way to the fourth floor, its doors sliding open on the usual city-room chaos. Full of the fire of righteous indignation, Hermione marched straight into her ex-husband’s office and slammed the door, leaving a flurry of startled and intrigued looks in her wake. Hermione’s temper when she got really angry was the stuff of legend around the Daily Prophet. And there had been plenty of fireworks of all sorts between the paper’s star reporter and its city editor over the years. Today’s encounter would only be the latest and potentially (bets were already being taken!) the most explosive. The temptation to put an ear to the city editor’s door was strong._ _

_ _“Okay, Malfoy, just what the hell do you think you’re trying to pull here?” she demanded, planting herself between him and one of the staffers, who immediately began backing up and out of the room._ _

_ _Draco assumed a wounded expression. “Whatever do you mean? I wished you well, did I not? What more do you want?”_ _

_ _“_My wand,_” she seethed, through gritted teeth. “Really, Malfoy, I’m surprised at you,” she went on, her tone dangerously controlled. “Nicking somebody’s wand is very bad form, and you know it. Hand it over.”_ _

_ _“Who, me? Never,” he protested, but there was a glint in his eye. Leaning back on the desk, his weight resting on his palms, his fingers suddenly curled around an object that had been hiding beneath the leaves of a large plant. Drawing his hand forward, he held up a wand._ _

_ _“Fuck me,” he marvelled, feigning surprise. “However did this get here?” Turning a sly gaze on his ex-wife, he held the wand out. _ _

_ _“I cannot begin to imagine,” she muttered darkly, plucking it from his palm and dropping it into her bag. “What I want to know is, why did you pinch it in the first place? Obviously, you wanted me to come back. But why?”_ _

_ _“Look, it’s like this,” he began and then waved an impatient hand towards a nearby chair. “Sit!”_ _

_ _She sat._ _

_ _“It’s like this,” he started again. “We’ve got a tremendous story in the works, see. Escaped prisoner from Azkaban. Surely you must have heard.”_ _

_ _She nodded, intrigued despite herself. It was huge news all over the wizarding world. Escapes from Azkaban were rare and the cause of great alarm. “Go on.”_ _

_ _“The thing is,” he told her excitedly, “there’s good reason to believe he was set up, and I’ve got sources who know where he’s hiding. I reckon there’s a chance for a huge scoop here, Granger, and I mean to get it!”_ _

_ _This passion of his, this fire in the belly, were what she’d fallen for years earlier. It was damned near irresistible, especially as she’d always had the same sense of exhilaration about a compelling new assignment herself. Well, _that_ wouldn’t happen again. Steeling herself, she forced an agreeably polite but disinterested smile._ _

_ _“That’s fantastic. But what does all this have to do with me?”_ _

_ _The question was completely disingenuous, and they both knew it._ _

_ _“You are the best writer on this newspaper, and you bloody well know it, Hermione. I’m asking you… humbly…”_ _

_ _Rolling her eyes, she began tapping the floor with a well-shod toe._ _

_ _“Yeah, okay, not humbly, exactly. That’s a bit of a stretch. But with tremendous sincerity and appreciation of your immense talent… Stay on just long enough to do this one last story! It’s got your name written all over it! You know you want to! I can see it in your eyes, Granger. You’re just dying to sink your teeth into this assignment!”_ _

_ _“Let’s leave my teeth out of it, if you don’t mind,” she muttered, folding her arms._ _

_ _“Right. Sorry. Poor choice of words. Tell you what, darling. Say yes and I swear I will never ask another thing of you again in this lifetime or any others!” He’d moved very close to her by this time, his grey eyes blazing into hers with that familiar fervency she’d always found it so hard to resist. “Let me tear up your letter of resignation.”_ _

_ _Forcing her gaze away from his, she shook her head vehemently. “No. I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving and getting married. That’s it!”_ _

_ _“Right, then. At least let me shelve it for a little while, just long enough for you to do this one last story. You owe it to your faithful readers, Granger. They’ll be expecting your usual spectacular reportage. And you and I both know that you’re itching to take this assignment on.”_ _

_ _The grin he flashed her just then was utterly disarming. She knew that face too. She’d seen it often enough over the years, generally right before she gave in and agreed to something that, five minutes earlier, she’d decided she’d have no part of. _ _

_ _It was true, though. She _was_ genuinely intrigued. It would certainly be an exciting swan song, one last story that would close out her journalism career with a bang. With a sky full of Roman candles, in fact. Ideas for the story were already niggling at her, causing her heart to race just a little._ _

_ _Forcing down the excitement that was already beginning to bubble up in her brain, she looked at her ex-husband and soon-to-be-ex boss sternly._ _

_ _“All right. I’ll do it. But on one condition. Swear to me that after this is done, you will let me go without any interference or opposition. You will not stand in my way. Swear, Malfoy!”_ _

_ _“Okay.”_ _

_ _“No! Swear to what I just said!”_ _

_ _He sighed deeply. “Just as you say. I swear I will not interfere with your plans or oppose them in any way after the article is done. There. Happy?”_ _

_ _“As happy as I can expect to be, I suppose,” she granted. Then she looked him in the eye and waggled a finger at him fiercely. “If you break your oath, Draco Malfoy, I will hex you into your old age! And you know I can do it, too!”_ _

_ _Turning on her heel, she walked out of the office and towards the lift. He watched her go, stroking his chin thoughtfully, a tiny smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. Things were going precisely to plan._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty-four hours later, Hermione sat hunched over her desk, tapping the tip of her quill pen against her bottom lip, a frown furrowing her brows. She’d already gathered the preliminary information she’d need to begin her investigation. Now it was time to fine-tune it and work out her angle, the necessary hook.

“Right,” she murmured, opening a small, black notebook and flipping several pages, settling on the one most recently filled in. “What have I got so far?”

The basics:

Escapee’s name and age: Artemius Branwood, age 53

Status in community: Pureblood-born Squib, disinherited and shunned by his mortified family. 

Alleged crimes: arson (setting fire to the Ministry) and the attempted assassination of the Minister of Magic for perceived persecution of Squibs.

Length of time in Azkaban: Five years served of a life sentence without parole.

_Well, he certainly has reason to be disgruntled. Not that his situation justifies what he’s alleged to have done, of course. But he claims he was set up, in any case. So the first question is, did he actually do what he was convicted of? And if he didn’t, then who did?_

She would need to speak to the prisoner as soon as possible. A series of interviews would be necessary, she reckoned. Malfoy would have to arrange that. He was practically the only one who knew where Branwood was hiding out.

“The Outcast.” Hermione smiled to herself with satisfaction. Brilliant possible title for her piece, or, even better, what could become a series of articles. It could revolutionise the way the wizarding community viewed Squibs! Focus on the inherent unfairness of their treatment and ostracism from the community! The rights of Squibs had been overlooked for far too long. She remembered reading about it in various histories of magic over the years. The treatment that Squibs received over the centuries had hardly been stellar. Case after case of individuals being expelled from their families was routinely recorded without any apparent awareness of how deeply shameful and damaging such treatment truly was. This could be a cause genuinely worth taking up!

In fact, this assignment could really make her career! It could… 

Wait. Hermione shook her head, her excited smile fading as she recalled the decision she’d chosen to make. This was to be her final hurrah. It wouldn’t do to forget that. Right, then, Hermione, she told herself. Keep a level head on your shoulders. This is business. No emotional involvement. And no expectations. Resolved, she dipped her quill in the ink pot and began making some notes.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The following morning, Draco heard a quick, familiar knock. He glanced up to find Hermione’s head poked round his office door. Quickly, he resumed his focus on the papers in front of him.

“What can I do for you, Granger?” he murmured.

She poked her head in a bit further. “I’ve got my angle on the escapee story, in case you’re interested.”

“Oh yes?” He still hadn’t even lifted his head. “Care to share, love?”

A moment later, she stood in front of his desk. “Not that you seem terribly interested, but –”

For a moment longer, he held his gaze to the parchment in front of him, feigning cool detachment, and then he looked up at her at last. 

“Not at all. Let’s have it. What’ve you got, then?”

This was going to be good. It was written all over her face. The old excitement, the addicting thrill of the chase... it was still there. This was what he'd counted on. 

“Well,” she began, purposefully. “He’s a _Squib_.”

Rocking back in his chair so that it assumed a rather dangerous tilt, Draco raised an eyebrow. “So? Everybody knows that. It’s not exactly news.”

“Yes, but I believe that it could anchor the whole piece. A tie-in to the history of terrible discrimination against Squibs through the centuries. The rights of these people have been trampled on for hundreds of years. They’ve been cast out by their families, lost everything. Who knows how many crimes have been done because of such dreadful treatment? Is it any wonder that they’ve been bitter and angry? Can we really blame them?”

Thoughtfully, Draco chewed for a moment on the tip of his quill and then shook his head. “You’re forgetting one rather crucial fact," he remarked. "The prisoner claims he was set up. He says he didn’t commit the crimes. Which, you’ll recall, were rather serious ones. Attempted murder of the Minister of Magic. Setting the Ministry on fire. Not exactly small potatoes.” 

“No, and actually, I suspect he’s telling the truth. Doesn't matter. It's still a great opportunity to shine a light on the basic issue. I’ve started doing a bit of digging, Malfoy. Artemius Branwood was a known agitator. He’s been crusading for Squibs’ rights for three decades. He’s been very much a public figure in that regard. It would've been so easy for the Ministry to pin this on him, and I have a feeling that’s exactly what happened five years ago.

“Look,” she continued excitedly, leaning forward. “I’ll need to talk to him as soon as possible, _and_ I’ll need to get hold of everything in the public record concerning arrests and trials the Wizengamot conducted around the time Branwood was accused and tried. _Someone_ did these crimes. But I bet it wasn’t Branwood or anything to do with Squibs’ rights. I bet,” she said slowly, a growing fervour shining in her eyes, “the whole thing was just a cover-up to discredit the Squibs’ rights movement by targeting one of its leaders. They get to kill three birds with one stone, see. They get their perpetrator and the case is closed as far as the public is concerned, so they're off the hook – and Squibs are worse off than they ever were in the public’s eyes.

“This article could be so much more, even, than an expose, if my theory is correct. Gods, Draco! A Ministry cover-up! Not to mention the fact that if I’m right, whoever actually did the crimes is still out there somewhere. And who knows what their agenda really was, or if they’ll strike again? This could be really massive!”

She sat back finally, watching Draco with bated breath. He just _had_ to buy it. She knew deep in her bones that she was on to something. 

Looking at her flushed cheeks and eyes bright with the challenge she’d just set herself, Draco bit back a satisfied grin. This was precisely what he’d hoped for when offering Hermione the assignment. Such a siren song was damned near irresistible to a mind as keen and a spirit as tenacious as hers. 

“Right, then, you’re on,” he told her, his cool tone just barely masking the growing excitement he was feeling himself. “Go home now and work from there for the time being. I’ll arrange a meeting with Branwood for tonight, if possible, and be in touch by owl or Floo to let you know where and when. It’ll be late, though. Dress in dark clothes. You don’t want to be conspicuous.”

Hermione jumped up from her chair. It was all she could do not to break into a gleeful jig. “Yes! All right! I’ll wait to hear from you.” 

Hurrying to the hearth, she scooped some Floo powder from the jar on the mantle and stepped into the fireplace. Turning, she flashed Draco a tremulous smile, threw the Floo powder to the stone floor of the hearth, and exclaimed, “45 Camden Place!”

In the next second, she was gone in a shower of green sparks and a cloud of smoke. Draco sat watching the smoke dissipate for a moment and then jumped to his feet. There were arrangements to be made. This was potentially the biggest story the Prophet had covered since Voldemort’s return and subsequent defeat. And his most talented reporter already had the wheels in her head turning furiously. Brilliant.

‘Merlin,’ he thought, shaking his head, and he couldn’t help grinning appreciatively. Granger had always been a looker, but never more than when she was on the trail of a big story. That fertile brain of hers invariably got his blood racing. Deep into an undercover investigation, even covered in dirt or sweat, her hair a mess, she was incredibly sexy. Unwinding together when the story was done, preferably in a hot, relaxing bath, was something he'd always relished. But for him, that was the icing on an already rich and tasty cake. Something about the fire in her eyes…

Things hadn’t changed. She still had the same effect on him, now more than ever. Sighing, he struggled to ignore the activity stirring his trousers. There was work to do.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Late that night  
  
It was a moonless night. Everything was shrouded in shadows. All sound, with the exception of the occasional, mournful call of a night bird, was eerily absent.

Hermione stood in a darkened, deserted alleyway alongside the entrance to a dilapidated block of flats. She had no idea where she was, because she’d had to agree to Apparate blindly, no questions asked. That meant she’d needed a guide to get her to this place. That guide had turned out to be Draco. 

She really shouldn’t have been surprised. He was one of a scant handful who knew Branwood’s whereabouts, and knowing Malfoy, he’d preferred to keep it that way. More control, he’d told her. And of course, he’d argued that the fewer people who knew, the safer both Branwood and the overall situation for them would be. He really hadn’t had to twist her arm – not too much, anyway, because she did reluctantly recognise the sense in what he’d said – though a residue of annoyance still rankled. She had neither wanted nor needed a childminder to hold her hand.

Just now, her childminder stood about a foot from her, lounging against the brick wall of the building, his expression inscrutable. He was dressed all in black, a slim, tall shadow of a man blending into the penetrating darkness of the streets and alleyways that surrounded them, his blond hair covered by a black, woollen cap pulled down almost to his eyes.

Hermione was dressed similarly, in black jeans and a black fleece pullover, its deep hood almost obscuring her eyes. Beneath that, her face was very pale, but it was evident that she was eager to get started. Her mouth was set in a tense, determined line that meant business. It was an expression Draco knew well.

“Now what?” she whispered. “What are we waiting for?”

He checked his watch. “It’s just about time,” he replied, his voice low and husky. “We can go inside in precisely…” He continued to study the watch face, counting down. “… thirty seconds.”

Those thirty seconds felt like three hundred, but Hermione forced herself to remain patient and silent. At last, Draco gave her a quick nod and took her arm.

“_Alohomora!_” he breathed, inscribing a small circle in the air with his wand. Instantly, a series of locks turned in their tumblers. The effect was like that of a long line of dominoes falling with perfect precision. 

“I could have done that wandlessly, you know,” Hermione grumbled, half under her breath. She jerked her arm. “And I don’t need to be babied either. Let go!”

“Sorry, it’s my duty to protect my star reporter,” Draco replied airily. “Besides, you don’t know where I’m taking you. And you’re not going to know, either. That was part of the deal with Branwood. Time for the blindfold. Go on, then. Put it on.”

With a grudging sigh, she pulled up the kerchief tied around her neck so that it covered her eyes. Then she relaxed her left arm, which he still held firmly by the elbow.

“Ready,” she said, still unconvinced that she needed him along at all. Didn’t he trust her to handle things? Was being kept in the dark really one of the conditions of the interview? 

She could hear the door opening. Its rusty squeal could have awakened the dead. Cringing, she put one foot in front of the other, trusting that Draco would keep her from walking into a wall. In fact, he steered her straight into a creaky old lift that probably should have been condemned. 

After a series of violent jerks and shudders, the door slid partway open, enough that they were able to escape its narrow confines into a corridor that had a distinctly musty odour, the smell of rotting wallpaper and mouldy carpeting.

“We’re _not_ going down the way we came up!” she muttered through gritted teeth. “What are you trying to do, Malfoy? Kill me?”

“I thought you’d prefer that to the stairs,” he remarked blithely. “Put a foot wrong there and you’ll wind up in the cellar.”

“Why didn’t we just Apparate, then? We have magic, after all, and at the very least, we could have done a Side-Along if I really had to wear this stupid blindfold!”

“Steady on, Granger. We’re nearly there.” Draco’s voice was a soothing, placating whisper. “Branwood is on the other side of this door.” He knocked three times, two measured knocks and then a third that were clearly an established signal.

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he turned the knob and the door swung open of its own volition.

“Ah, my guests have arrived,” a voice from the far end of the room observed drily. “I’m honoured.”

The room was dark, very nearly as dark as the alleyway they’d just left. At the far end, there was a bay window, bare and spartan. It admitted a pale wash of light from the street below, the figure seated before it backlit and thrown into silhouette. He sat perfectly still, so still that you might be persuaded that he had no need to breathe. 

“Come closer,” the voice instructed. “Just there, mind. No further.” He indicated a chair that was probably four feet from his own. 

Draco still had a hand on Hermione’s elbow as he steered her to the chair. 

“Thank you for seeing us,” he began. “We –”

“It is Miss Granger I wish to speak with,” the voice interrupted. “She will join you in due course. She is perfectly safe here for the present.”

There was a very pregnant pause then, and it was obvious that Draco was expected to leave for the duration of the interview. He backed away in the general direction of the door, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Yes, of course. I’ll just…”

“You may wait in the hall, Mr. Malfoy.” The voice brooked no opposition. The instructions were clearly not subject to debate.

A moment later, the sound of the door opening and quietly closing told Hermione that she was now alone in the room with Artemius Branwood, Azkaban escapee and known agitator. His cause was just. She had no doubt of that. But who knew what five years in Azkaban might have done to him? She couldn’t even see his face, which made her distinctly uncomfortable. There was something about being able to see someone’s eyes that enabled her to take the measure of that person. For all she knew, he might now be seriously damaged, strung out, even a bit crazed. He might be self-medicating with a really powerful, mood-altering potion. She wouldn’t blame him if thoughts of revenge were on his mind, scary scenario though that was. 

All she had were a voice and what she could discern through the thin fabric of the blindfold: the dark, hulking outline of a man seated before her, backlit by the faint grey light of the coming dawn.

“You may remove the blindfold if you wish.” The statement was delivered flatly, matter-of-factly. “You have questions for me, I take it.”

“Yes, I do.” Hermione slipped the kerchief down off her face and shifted in her seat, leaning forward a bit and still straining to make out the man’s features. “I’ll start with the most obvious one: did you do it?”

Her words were greeted by dead silence for several very long seconds. And then the most curious sound erupted from Branwood, a hacking, phlegm-tinged bark that Hermione realised, suddenly, was laughter. It was actually rather alarming. It sounded as if he might just keel over in a fatal paroxysm at any moment.

Two minutes later, he was still alive, much to her relief. Taking several ragged breaths, he collected himself. 

“Why did you laugh?” Hermione asked quietly, her gaze averted. Her self-writing quill, busily scratching away on the parchment she’d brought for notes, halted in mid-air, waiting for a response.

“Your question is charmingly naïve, Miss Granger. Especially as I expect you know the answer already. Do you really believe it mattered, five years ago, whether or not I did the deeds in question? I served a _purpose_, you see. I was handy. Perfect stooge for the Ministry’s designs.”

“Which were?” She was fairly confident she knew the answer to this as well, but better to have it come from him.

“Oh come now, Miss Granger. Must I spell it out? All right, then. They needed somebody to blame for a crime _they engineered themselves,_ a convenient and completely plausible scapegoat. These people are well positioned and influential within the Ministry. I believe what they wanted was to ruin the Squibs’ rights movement, bury it in its tracks, and at the same time, use this fiction they’d created in order to promote a far more right-wing agenda. What better way to do that than by being seen to quash what they presented in their propaganda as a terrorist movement?” 

Cold fingers of shock clutched at Hermione’s stomach and she sat back, stunned. If Branwood were telling the truth, it was far worse than she had suspected. And now, there was a nationwide manhunt to find him, and because he’d escaped, bestow upon him the Dementors’ Kiss – which would shut him up for good, of course. The next question was the only logical one.

“If what you say is true, and a faction within the Ministry carried out the crimes you’ve been accused of, is it your sense that this was this done with the knowledge of the Minister himself?” 

It was virtually impossible to believe that Kingsley Shacklebolt would condone a staged attack on his own life and an attempt to burn the Ministry to the ground for the purpose of bringing down a movement and establishing a new, ultra-conservative direction for Ministry policies. If this were true, though… suddenly, she was the one finding it difficult to breathe. 

She waited for the answer to her question. There was a deep, irresolute sigh.

“That I do not know for certain, I’m afraid,” Branwood said at last. “It certainly doesn’t fit with what everyone believes of Shacklebolt. I have no trouble believing it of some of his underlings, however. It’s quite possible he was very cleverly duped by his own people. Who, precisely, I don’t know for certain, though I do have my suspicions.”

“So…” Hermione paused. “You don’t know who actually carried out the arson attack and the attempt on Shacklebolt’s life. There’s a chance that the Minister knew all about it, but an equal or better chance that he knew nothing at all and was being manipulated. Either way, it was all concocted from within the Ministry itself. A conspiracy. Have I got that right?”

A short, explosive burst of coughing stopped his attempts at an answer. At last, calmer, Branwood offered a single word in reply: “Yes.” And then, “Sorry about… the coughing. It’s my health, you see. Azkaban ruined it. Those cells are not exactly what I’d call conducive to healthful living. Bloody freezing all the time. Dank and mouldy. The damp and mould get into everything, right down to your fucking pores. I'm a dead man walking, Miss Granger. My time is short. That’s why I want you to tell my story. Get justice for me, and for the people who depended on me to carry the banner. If you can do that much, I know I’ll rest easy.”

By now, the dawn light had dispelled most of the shadows that hung, like spider webs, over the room, and she could just about make out Branwood’s face at last. Thin, pale, and craggy, with a thatch of unkempt black hair shot through with grey, he sat hunched over as if he were physically unable to straighten his spine. With a small shock, Hermione realised that this might actually be the case, another product of five years in the hellhole that was Azkaban. Then he raised his eyes to hers. They burned, blue and feverishly bright, in a field of grey, flaccid skin that was old before its time.

A wave of righteous indignation swept over her and she straightened, her chin lifted. She could do this. She _would_ do this. For Branwood and for all the Squibs he had tried so hard to help. For the sacrifice he’d been forced to make because of a probable false arrest and conviction. His life might be nearly over, but his name would not be forgotten if she had anything to say about it. She would clear it, and she would find the real culprits, no matter whom she had to expose. This was the most dangerous and potentially explosive assignment she’d ever been handed, but right along with ripples of apprehension at what was before her, there was a steady hum of adrenaline too. This would be one hell of a story. And it was all hers.

The allotted time for the interview was up. Taking a breath to calm her heart, which was hammering away in her chest and about ready to burst, Hermione stood and held out her hand to the shadowy figure in the chair. He looked up at her and a faint smile raised the corners of his mouth ever so slightly as briefly, he touched the tips of his fingers to hers, his hand falling back to his side.

“Good luck, Miss Granger. I’m afraid I’ve given you a difficult and quite dangerous task. You might find that you uncover far more than you’d bargained for. We will speak again, no doubt. I will contact you in the same way as tonight, through Mr. Malfoy. And now, I shall bid you goodnight, or rather…” He glanced behind him at the window bright with the first signs of the sunrise. “… good morning.”

“Thank you for speaking with me. I…” she began, backing away. She wanted to say something more, try to help in some way with food or clothing or a place to stay. But she understood, somehow, that he already had those sorts of arrangements in place, and he didn’t need that kind of help from her. She had only one thing to offer him, but if she succeeded, it would be worth all the creature comforts he might now crave and more.

Slipping out the door, she found Draco waiting, arms folded, head nodding. He looked as if he’d been dozing off now and then. When he spotted her, he snapped to attention, though with a large yawn he couldn’t quite stifle.

“All right there, Granger?”

She nodded. “Let’s go. I’ve _loads_ to tell you!” She turned towards the lift and then looked back at him, eyes narrowing. “Hang on a minute. I just realised – you never answered my question from earlier. If we could Apparate to the outside of this building, why in Merlin’s name couldn’t we have just Apparated inside as well? Why did we even need to take this manky old lift?”

Draco gave a careless shrug. “Didn’t I tell you? The interior of the building has been warded against all magic. Branwood didn’t want there to be the slightest chance of his being discovered that way. I expect the same will be true wherever he’s hiding next.”

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Really. I see. And who cast the wards? You?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied blithely. “Least I could do. I mean, the poor chap really needed help, and we got an amazing exclusive in exchange. Do you really mind so much going back down in the lift? Tell you what. I’ll just slip my arm round your waist and brace you up, keep you from falling.” 

To demonstrate, he did just that, propelling them both into the rickety old lift. It shuddered and gave a sudden lurch, throwing them against one wall, Hermione pressed up against him in what, for all intents and purposes, was a very close embrace.

True to his word, he did keep her from falling, though. Gallantry definitely had its perks. As did a good white lie.

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“This could be absolutely _tremendous_, Malfoy! I mean, gosh, this takes my theory much further than I could ever have anticipated!”

Draco had agreed. They’d gone back to Hermione’s flat following the interview – he’d insisted on seeing her home safely – and she’d made coffee and some breakfast for the two of them. Then they’d sat down together and she’d filled him in on what she’d learned, the whole, incredible story.

Her eyes were wide and alive with excitement, her colour high, as she spoke. The adrenaline was positively crackling. This was the Granger he knew and loved, and he fought to keep the delighted grin off his face as he listened. He had to admit, though, the story she told was bloody fascinating all on its own. He’d have got just as caught up in it no matter who had related it to him – well, almost. The possibilities for what might be uncovered really were mind-boggling. Widespread corruption within the Ministry of Magic was nothing to sneeze at. And no matter how it turned out with regard to the Minister himself, it would be explosive news, whether he’d been coerced into supporting the new, far more restrictive and punitive policies and an unwilling party to the plot, or if he’d been completely duped and lied to by his underlings – or, worst of all, if he’d actively supported those policies and been a willing conspirator all along.

“My money’s on Shacklebolt not having known about the plot to burn down the Ministry and the assassination attempt. I think that bit was real, by the way. Everybody who’s observed the Ministry at all in the last several years knows that there is a faction in the government that wants desperately to get rid of him. If they could kill him and make it look like a very vocal critic of their policies had done it, so much the better. Succeed and they get rid of Shacklebolt and Branwood at the same time, break the Squibs’ rights movement once and for all, and garner tremendous support for their other extremist policies. It’s quite brilliant, really. And very audacious. They’re probably really pissed off that Shacklebolt is still alive.” Draco speared a forkful of scrambled eggs and chewed thoughtfully.

“Though of course, they did manage to get Branwood convicted and sent to Azkaban for life. That’s bad enough in itself, assuming that he’s really innocent, as he claims.” Hermione took a sip of her coffee and sat back, regarding him with quiet determination. “I believe him, Draco. I feel in my bones that he’s telling the truth about all of this. What about you?”

Draco nodded soberly. “Agreed. And in any case, we know that his trial was a complete sham. It was pretty obvious at the time that the Wizengamot had railroaded him.”

“Gods!” she hissed, breaking in. “Of course! The Wizengamot! Are you suggesting –”

He nodded. The implications for this case were growing more profound by the minute, ever-widening ripples in a very murky pond. “Reckon I am, yeah. If enough of them were ‘persuaded,’ shall we say, to go along with the Ministry on this conviction, they’re as guilty of conspiracy as all the other government officials who would have been involved.”

It was almost too much to take in all at once. There was so much that would need doing. But what stood out beyond every other consideration was finding solid evidence of guilt that could point the finger categorically at those who were really responsible. If she could clear Branwood’s name while he was still alive to appreciate it and shine a light on the worthy cause he’d championed for so long, that would be compensation enough for any hardships or dangers encountered along the way. 

And there would be dangers.

It seemed that this thought was occurring to both Hermione and Draco simultaneously, though neither put words to it. But a look passed between them in the silence that fell just then. There was worry on his part and an obstinate resistance to that worry on hers.

“Look,” he began, “let me –”

“NO! I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Malfoy. I do not require any special treatment or protection!” she snapped. 

He raised his hands in a gesture of submission and fell back in his seat. “Okay, okay! I was only going to suggest that you work from home instead of coming into the office. We could cast some powerful protection spells, and –” 

Hermione let out a snort and shook her head. “No thanks. I’ll work in my office as usual. No less safe than home. Besides, I think I’d go mad just looking at these four walls all the time. And anyway, I think it’s important to keep work and home separate. You know that.” 

The look she gave him then said far more than her mere words. It had been a sore point between them during their marriage; Draco had never been able to keep the two separate. Work was always invading their home life, making it impossible to socialise with friends without the danger of interruption or even just relax and leave the tensions of the newspaper behind in the Prophet’s offices. There was no life without the newspaper sitting squarely in the middle of things. Strong as her dedication to her career had always been, she’d known where to draw the line. There was no line as far as he’d been concerned.

Her unspoken words did not fail to hit their mark. It had been his fault for so many reasons that their marriage had failed. This was one of the big ones. And he knew it. 

Clearly, Hermione thought, things had not changed for her ex-husband. He was who he was. By contrast, it would be such a pleasant change, being married to Ron. She’d actually have a home life. Children. A husband who wasn’t constantly talking shop. Time to unwind and relax.

She’d just get this last, big assignment out of her system, and then she could move on with her life without regrets.

For his part, Draco was actually not at all unhappy with her insistence on working at the office instead of at home. He could keep a better eye on her there, whereas here, in her flat, she'd likely find ways of keeping him from popping in as often as he'd really like. Plus, if she were at the office... well, it was obvious. There would only be a door and a short hallway between them, not half of London. Of course, suggesting that she work from home had been a risky move, because he'd known full well that it would likely trigger certain problematic memories. But there was potentially an immediate and tangible benefit there as well. And in fact, she had reacted just as he’d hoped she would. Time with Hermione was precious, especially with this forthcoming marriage of hers; he would take it any way he could wangle it. 

"Yes, all right, darling. It's your choice. Absolutely." He nodded agreeably and reached for his coffee cup. "Whenever you want to get started. Just let me know what you need. Any more coffee by chance?"  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Branwood had sent a message two days after their meeting. It was brief and cryptic – obviously, Hermione realised, he needed to make sure it wasn’t traceable, if his owl were intercepted – but it would provide her with names, once she’d worked out the puzzle he’d created. A challenge. Just Hermione’s cup of tea.

She sat down, pulled out her quill, and began working out the answers immediately. Before too long, she had the first several names. They were people very high up in the Ministry and the Wizengamot, and just seeing their names written before her was chilling. By that evening, she’d figured out the remaining clues. Not surprisingly, all three of Shacklebolt’s personal support staff were named. Then, there was one from International Magical Cooperation, and one from Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Five altogether, plus another potential six from the Wizengamot. The list would likely not end there, but it was a start.

She sat back in her chair with an explosive sigh that was part exhaustion and part shock. Now what?

Not surprisingly, Draco was still in his office down the hall. All of this first day of Hermione working on this story, he’d been a model of restraint, keeping himself away from her office and avoiding even an interdepartmental owl to find out how she was doing. Now, there was a knock on his door. Good. _Finally_. It had to be Hermione. Nobody else was still at work at that hour; nobody else was crazy enough or dedicated enough.

“Come!” he sang out, setting down some copy he’d been reviewing.

The door opened and a rather exhausted-looking Hermione came in. But despite the obvious fatigue, there was an energy animating her features, a fire from within that was still fuelling her.

“What’ve you got, then?” he asked briskly. “Anything we can stand on?”

Without a word, she laid the parchment on his desk. He took it up and began studying it, his eyes widening as they scanned the contents of the page.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered. “This is what he sent?”

She nodded. “I know. It’s shocking. But these are just his suspicions. We don’t know at this point if they have any substance. What I really need,” she sighed, dropping into a chair facing Draco’s desk, “is one solid lead, something that connects this case to at least one of the names on the list. One will lead to a second, and then, eventually –”

“ We’ve got them bang to rights. Exactly.” There was a growing hunger in Draco’s eyes that mirrored Hermione’s. “Any thoughts on where to look for that first lead?”

“Yes. I –”

There was a sudden knock on the door. Hermione and Draco exchanged surprised glances, and then she reached for the door, opening it.

Ron was standing there, fist raised to knock again.

“Here you are, Hermione. This was the only other office with the lights still on. Malfoy,” he added offhandedly, nodding in Draco’s direction. 

“Well, well, well. Weasley. To what do we owe the pleasure, loosely speaking?” Draco drawled, a sardonic half smile curling one corner of his mouth. Tilting back in his chair, he propped his feet up on the desk.

Ron didn’t answer; instead he turned his attention back to his fiancée. “Thought we'd go to dinner. You must be exhausted. Long day?”

“Yes,” Draco nipped in, “and it’s not over yet. We’re _busy_ here, Weasley. _BUSY_. Work that’s actually important, yeah? Why don’t you just get yourself some takeaway and go home?”

Ron was beginning to look seriously irritated. “I was asking my _fiancée,_ Malfoy. Not you. Hungry, Hermione?”

“Yes, a bit, but –” Hermione began in protest. 

“No ‘buts.’ You’ve done enough for today. The idea is to work less, not more. Before too long, you’ll be happily retired from all this lot and chasing a bunch of little Weasleys about. That’ll keep you busy enough, I reckon.” He chuckled with satisfaction at the very thought. “Come on, then. More important things to do than whatever _this_ is.” He gestured at the paperwork she and Draco had been poring over. “Like planning our wedding. Mum wants to talk to you about the flowers.”

Draco turned his face away to hide a grimace. Ron had Hermione firmly by the elbow at this point, and he was shepherding her out of Draco’s office. Over her shoulder, she shot her ex-husband a look that definitely did not have “happy housewife” written all over it. 

“Talk more tomorrow, okay?” she called out as the door shut behind them. “Goodnight!”

The door clicked and Draco frowned, his mouth set in a thin, irritated line. It was obvious, even if only to him at this point, that Hermione did not really want what she thought she wanted. Ergo, if he meddled in their relationship, he was only doing what, in her secret heart of hearts, she truly desired. He still held out a slim hope that she would eventually choose him again and the life they’d had together, or at least some modified version of that. But even if she didn’t, it was blatantly obvious that Weasley and everything he offered were all wrong for her. He just had to make her see that for herself.

Malfoys had never run from a challenge. And he would definitely relish this one.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
If Hermione had had the reputation of being a workaholic before, the perception was cemented for all time now. It seemed to friends and family as if quite suddenly, she’d disappeared off the face of the earth, as if she’d been swallowed up, leaving virtually no discernible trace. Countless messages went unanswered. Research was driving her entire life now, no matter where she had to be in order to do it.

At the moment, her primary research location of choice was the Prophet’s archive room, where copies of the newspaper dating back two hundred and sixty-eight years were available for perusal. Oddly, the paper hadn’t really changed all that much since the first edition in 1743. Formatting had been modernised since the 18th century, of course, but up until the past seven years, it had remained the salacious rag it had always been and had gradually lost a chunk of both its readership and the financial support of its backers. Draco’s financial involvement with the foundering newspaper had been a lifeline initially, but it had also been a way to create a new image for the publication. Surprisingly, considering it was a Malfoy who’d provided a major infusion of needed cash, that new image was of a newspaper with far more actual substance, though there was still a nod to sensationalism in the interest-grabbing headlines and front-page content. This Hermione had vowed to herself that she would continue to reduce in whatever additional ways she could, and it was a mission that had kept her hard at work at the Prophet for years. She’d been convinced that she could be a good influence on the paper’s editor-in-chief, keep the glaring headlines to a minimum and ensure that there was always truth behind the allegations and splashy photos. 

Elbow deep in old copies of the newspaper dating back thirteen years, Hermione sat under the harsh glare of an old lamp suspended from the ceiling by a long wire. Its yellow light flickered now and then, in defiance of the spell she’d used to power it up.

So far, she’d found three old articles that had to do with appointees to the Minister of Magic’s inner circle. Brief bios, mission statements, staunch avowals of loyalty to Shacklebolt, the usual stuff. Everything appeared to be very straightforward, nothing unusual or suspect. For that very reason, a flurry of red flags popping up in her brain, she knew she needed to dig a bit deeper into the lives of all three of the Minister’s support staff.

The most logical place to continue with her digging was the library at Hogwarts. Its sheer size and the breadth of its collections were enough to assure Hermione that she would find something on each of these individuals, beginning with their family backgrounds and childhoods. Wasting no time, she sent an owl to the headmaster, asking for permission as an alumna to work in the school library, including the Restricted Section. The answer arrived the next morning, bright and early. All systems go. So she went – back to the place that had shaped her as a witch, and back to the rooms within that place that had served as a true and reliable sanctuary, a virtual second home.

Bexley and Fontaine presented nothing of interest when she looked further. Bertram Bexley had been a Ravenclaw, deadly dull by nature, a real wonky sort, nose to the grindstone. Parents were Purebloods, family held in high esteem, nothing out of the ordinary. Not a single ripple in the pond. It was pretty much the same story with Elton Fontaine. The only obvious differences were that Fontaine had been a Slytherin, though an apparently unremarkable one, and his Pureblood family were better off financially than Bexley’s solidly middle-class family. Apart from that, nothing really distinguishing stood out.

Hours later, she’d traced both families back several generations at Hogwarts, and still, nothing extraordinary or remotely suspicious had jumped out at her. Time to investigate Number Three. Like Bexley and Fontaine, Alec Carmody must have seemed an entirely safe and reliable choice for Shacklebolt’s support staff, based on his prior performance in several Ministry departments over the years.

Hermione sighed and sat back, flexing her stiff neck and shoulders. It only remained for her to look into Carmody’s time at Hogwarts and then take her investigation several generations further back. She took a quick glance at her watch. Nearly nine. She’d been in the school library for close to seven hours. 

Her stomach rumbled, and she glanced around quickly, embarrassed. Nobody appeared to have noticed. There were several hours of work remaining, she knew. It was a good job she’d packed a couple of snacks. They’d see her through. Pulling out an apple and a large slice of cheddar cheese, she took a bite, savouring the combined sweetness and sharp tanginess, and dove back into the parchments spread out before her.

Two hours later, she was standing outside the castle, preparing to leave. She’d make a quick stop at the office first. What she’d found at literally the eleventh hour was stunning.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The knock on his front door startled Draco out of the doze he’d just slipped into in his favourite armchair. Several sharp, staccato bangs on the door sounded in quick succession, and he started awake, his heart pounding.

He knew that knock. It was the frantic, “open-the-door-at-once-I’ve-got-something-urgent-to-tell-you” series of knocks that only one person had ever employed with him.

He jumped out of the armchair and sprinted to the door, not even bothering to check the peephole. Flinging the door open, he pulled her inside.

“What the hell, Granger? It’s…” He checked the clock on the mantle. “Past midnight. Where have you been?”

“Hogwarts. And the office. More specifically, the archive room.” Her eyes were almost feverishly bright, her cheeks flushed with excitement. 

She’d found something. It was written all over her face.

Taking her by the arm, he led her over to the armchair. “Sit. I’ll make you some tea.” 

“I’d rather have coffee,” she replied. 

“Not that you need any more of a buzz,” he chuckled. “Right, then. Coffee.”

He disappeared into the kitchen to prepare a tray. No house-elf resided in his flat; he’d learned to fend for himself during their marriage, and after it ended, it had seemed pointless to render himself dependent on servants again when he’d found he could cope quite nicely on his own. And he found he rather liked that he could.

A few minutes later, he reappeared, a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of Garibaldi biscuits in his hands. The coffee smelled wonderful, rich and fragrant. Only one kind of coffee smelled exactly like that. It was her favourite, a medium-dark roast with subtle notes of chocolate and cinnamon. He’d kept a tin of it in his cupboard after they’d split up, never willing to admit why – though in his heart of hearts, he knew the reason.

Sniffing appreciatively, Hermione sat up in the chair and accepted one of the mugs. “You still have this,” she murmured. “I’m surprised. I thought you didn’t really care for it. Not strong enough, you used to say.”

Draco shrugged offhandedly. “Well, you know how it is… you get used to a thing and then you really feel its absence when it’s gone.” He fetched his own mug from the tray and sat down again. “Right. What’ve you found? I assume it’s something big, or you wouldn’t be sitting in my flat at half twelve, drinking coffee.”

She took a deep, restorative swig from her mug, swallowed, and sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. You know that I’ve spent today digging up info about the three Ministry officials who are closest to Shacklebolt. Bexley, Fontaine, and Carmody. They were all at Hogwarts at the same time, though Carmody was a year behind the other two. Bexley was in Ravenclaw, Fontaine in Slytherin.”

“And Carmody? What about him, then?”

“Slytherin too. He finished in 1976, the other two in ’75. All three are from Pureblood families, all three fairly well off, though Bexley did not come from old money, the way the other two did. Apparently, Carmody and Fontaine were close at school. They formed a sort of alliance. And they remained close after they finished at Hogwarts. From what I could tell, Fontaine pulled Carmody into a Ministry job not long after he’d begun there himself. Nepotism was alive and well, it seems.”

“And Bexley?” Draco raised an eyebrow and waited.

“That’s the thing, see. He wasn’t part of their clique. But he was doing well at the Ministry, getting some recognition. He was well liked and respected. He was moving up the ladder in a systematic way, not making any enemies. So it appears that Carmody and Fontaine approached him. There are reports of the three of them suddenly authoring reports together, signing off on things together, etc. Why would that have happened? Only one reason I can think of.”

Draco frowned, his coffee mug halfway to his lips. “They wanted something from him. His coattails, I reckon. And they got that ride. But why would he have gone along with it? I bet –”

“They had something on him. I think so, too.” Hermione nodded, taking a bite of her biscuit. Suddenly, she was famished. “I don’t know what yet. But something. I suspect it might have gone back to their days at school. Whatever it was, Bexley wanted it kept quiet. So they had leverage to blackmail him. I suspect it’s because of this that Fontaine and Carmody got appointed to Shacklebolt’s inner circle. It must have been on Bexley’s coerced recommendation.”

The room fell silent for a moment, as each digested this information along with the coffee and biscuits. 

“Lovely!” Draco muttered. “Anything else?”

She nodded. “Mmm. One more thing for now. But I have a feeling it will turn out to be really significant. Guess what I found out about Carmody?” She paused dramatically, a teasing smile playing about her lips.

“Bloody hell, Granger! Leave me hanging, why don’t you!”

She laughed then, a silvery peal that went straight through him. “Sorry! Okay, so… Carmody’s older brother was a Squib! True!” she exclaimed, noting the surprise on Draco’s face. 

He sat forward eagerly. “What happened to him, d’you know?”

Hermione shook her head. “No clue. I’ll talk to my source in the Ministry tomorrow and see what I can find out. Somebody must know. Oh, and…” She had a sudden thought. “I will need some discretionary cash, or at least an IOU from the Prophet’s Gringotts account. My source is good, but he doesn’t work for free.”

Draco thought for a moment, sipping his coffee meditatively. “Not a problem. I’ll draw up the note first thing in the morning. How did you find this out?”

“From a file in the Restricted Section of the library. Apparently, the Carmodys were big donors to the school. But the money they donated was always given on condition that any reference to their oldest son would be eliminated, those documents returned to the family. I think virtually all of the paperwork in question was returned, as they stipulated. But one document was overlooked. It was a report from a healer who had tested Richard Carmody. She had written an evaluation of his magical abilities, or rather, his utter lack of them. Somehow, that report wasn’t returned with the rest. It must have been accidentally misfiled. I found it today totally by chance.”

Draco whistled appreciatively. “What a piece of luck! Fantastic work, darling. This stuff is incredible. And you’ve only just scratched the surface.”

Hermione pursed her lips in a frown. “I’ve a really strong feeling about this, Malfoy. It can’t be a coincidence. I feel like I’m right on the verge of something really enormous, you know? As if any second, something’s going to explode right in front of me. I’m so close…”

He moved to stand before her, holding out his arms to help her to stand. “You’re also really exhausted. Look, it’s very late. Why don’t you just stay here tonight? There’s plenty of room.”

Grasping her hands, he pulled her to her feet, so close that he could smell the traces of her perfume and the scent of her shampoo. Vanilla. As ever.

“Stay,” he whispered into her hair. And in that moment, the two of them so near to each other that they were almost touching, time seemed suspended, as if they were somehow standing outside of themselves in the passing seconds, desire pulling one way and common sense the other.

Another moment of hesitation, and then she wrenched herself away. “No, I… I can’t. You know I can’t. I’ve got to go! I’ll… I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight!” 

Then she was gone, a faint scent of vanilla still lingering.  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

The following morning found Hermione at the Ministry’s secret entrance, an ordinary-looking, out-of-service telephone booth that was the conduit to a vast underground network of offices, amphitheatres and courtrooms, the heart of government for the wizarding world. She entered the phone booth with a quick glance to the left and right, dialled the code, and then descended in a stomach-wrenching whoosh into the depths of the Ministry, far below the street-level pavement and the throngs of people hurrying here and there. 

There was only one person she needed to find: Alastair Musgrave. He was a relatively low-level functionary in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and he’d been around, fairly invisibly and discreetly, for years. Hermione was betting that he would know something, if anyone would, about Alec Carmody and his Squib brother Richard.

Tracking Musgrave down proved to be a challenge on this particular day. Everyone she asked seemed to think he was somewhere else, and nobody had it right. After a time, it began to feel as if he were being hidden deliberately.

‘Don’t be paranoid,’ Hermione told herself. ‘No reason to suspect anything – not yet, anyway.’

Eventually, she found him, or rather the tail end of him, robes flapping as he walked, disappearing into one of the lifts. Scrambling as fast as she could, she managed to get herself inside just as the lift’s doors were sliding shut.

Turning to glance at Musgrave, Hermione caught his eye. She smiled and nodded, still slightly out of breath, as she’d had to sprint down a hallway to catch the lift. Neither of them said a word, however, until they’d exited the lift, Hermione discreetly following after her quarry.

“Alastair,” she said eventually in a near-whisper. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Musgrave regarded her silently for a moment and then, eyes slightly narrowed, he replied, “What can I do for you?” 

“I need some information. I’m hoping you might be able to answer a couple of questions, or if you can’t, at least point me in the right direction.”

He gave a surreptitious glance around. “Come on, then. We can’t talk here. Too many ears everywhere.”

She followed him once again, this time down a corridor to a locked door. It turned out to be a broom cupboard, crowded with a variety of cleaning supplies. Hermione was no stranger to this broom cupboard; it was one of three that Musgrave used when he required complete privacy for a conversation. Doubtless, conversation was all he ever used the cupboards for, Hermione couldn’t help thinking; he was a colourless, middle-aged man, skinny, balding and bespectacled. Utterly nondescript, which was precisely what a good inside source should be.

Privacy and discretion were assured in this place; comfort was most decidedly not. Crammed together and surrounded by brooms, mops, buckets, rags, and bottles of cleaning potions, Hermione and Musgrave stood face to face, their noses nearly touching. He was a little bit shorter than she was, and they had to turn their heads to one side in order not to bump up against each other.

“Before we go any further,” he said decisively, “let us agree the terms. I expect we are talking about the same sum as last time?”

Hermione nodded. “It’s quite generous, really.”

Musgrave sighed, a gush of air exiting his nostrils with a faint whistling sound. “I suppose I shall have to content myself with that,” he lamented. “Well? What is it you want to know?”

“Right, so… I learnt recently that a colleague of yours, Alec Carmody, has a brother who’s –”

“A Squib. And that’s important because…?”

“Well, Squibs' rights have been getting a lot of attention lately, haven’t they. The bloke who escaped from Azkaban is a well-known and very vocal agitator for the cause. The case against him was predicated on the idea that he had a grudge against the Ministry and the Minister himself because of the shabby way that Squibs have always been treated in this country, and that’s the reason he allegedly tried to assassinate Shacklebolt and set fire to the Ministry. So I wondered… has Carmody ever spoken to you about the case? Or about Squibs in general? And do you know what happened to his brother?” 

Musgrave didn’t answer for a couple of moments. In the semi-darkness of the cupboard, his eyes were all Hermione could see clearly, and just now, his gaze was inscrutable, occluded. He’d thrown up a barrier in response to her questions, and that could only mean one of two things: either he was seriously disturbed and threatened by her questions for some reason and she was seeing fear in his eyes, or he knew something highly inflammatory and was debating whether to share it, even for the price they’d agreed earlier. She pressed on. He knew something; she was sure of it.

“Alastair,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. We always protect our sources. You know that.”

“Easy for you to say, you and Draco Malfoy. You lot aren’t the ones working here.”

‘Thank the gods!’ Hermione found herself thinking. 

“Look,” he continued hurriedly, dropping his voice even lower. “There’s only so much I can safely tell you right now. First off, Carmody detests Squibs. I’ve never seen such abject hatred. It’s actually rabid. Left up to him, I reckon he’d have them all rounded up and exterminated.”

“Like Voldemort wanted to do with Muggles and Muggleborns,” she murmured. “Same sort of unreasoning hatred, same sort of scapegoating.”

Musgrave nodded gravely. “He didn’t talk much about the case, but he followed it pretty closely. And the verdict was a bloody coup de grace as far as he was concerned. Couldn’t have been more delighted, though he tried not to show it. And… what was the third question again?”

“Carmody’s brother. What happened to him? Do you know?”

“Sent away, wasn’t he. To bloody Wales. Village in the middle of nowhere, in Carmarthenshire. New name, ties cut, the lot. That was more than thirty years ago now.”

Rural Wales. He might as well have been dropped off the face of the earth. Hermione frowned. “Any idea what eventually became of him?”

Musgrave shook his head slowly. “That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid. Nobody round here wants to own up to having a Squib in the family. It’s just not on, not if you want to get anywhere with your career. Carmody never actually told me about his brother, you know.”

Now this was interesting. “How did you find out, then?” 

“Overheard him talking to somebody in the loo, didn’t I. Donkey’s years ago. Talking really quiet-like. To Fontaine, that’s who it was. I remember now. Said his dad had sent his brother far away, never mind what his mother had wanted. I remember thinking that was really cold on his part. Really harsh. The village might as well have been on the moon, the way he talked about it. It was that remote. And he laughed about it. I remember that as well.”

“How would the brother have survived?”

“Money. Old Man Carmody has plenty of it. Though I doubt he’d have spared much for his Squib son. Probably just kept him in tea and biscuits and the occasional load of firewood. That’s how it’s done in these cases. Some sort of meagre allowance.”

Musgrave shrugged, his thin shoulders hunched and bony beneath the robes. He was clearly done for now. There would be nothing more.

Hermione dug into her purse and pulled out a packet of coins, pressing them into his palm. Eight Galleons would more than suffice. It was a tidy sum for the work of a few minutes. If he had any more for her at some point, and she dearly hoped he would, Malfoy would simply have to cough it up. “Right, then. Here.”

Moving with quiet stealth, Musgrave pocketed the packet, slowly turned the doorknob, and nudged the cupboard door open a crack. He peered out in both directions and then pushed the door open all the way. The coast was clear, and he hurried off without a backward glance. Hermione did the same, heading in the opposite direction. She had most of what she’d come for. It was a good start.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Draco agreed. His star reporter had come through with a good deal of potentially explosive information. He could feel the crackle of its energy between the lines as Hermione began to describe what she’d uncovered.

They sat together in her office this time, heads nearly touching as they bent over her notes. 

“Carmody was the most vocal and vehement of his family that this older brother needed to be shut away somewhere forever, so as not to be an embarrassment or an impediment to his career ambitions or the family’s social ambitions, both of which were apparently considerable. Carmody’s father didn’t need any persuasion. He was ready to do whatever it took to make his older son disappear. The mother was a different story. But she was overruled. Really rather sad, if you ask me.”

“So what happened to the brother?”

“They exiled him. He was sent to a remote village in Wales and forced to change his name and entire identity, under threat of being financially cut off forever if he refused. It was either change his identity or become instantly destitute. So he went along with it and apparently received a paltry allowance, just enough to get by on. No more family, nothing. It’s like they declared him dead. Whatever life Richard Carmody’s made for himself since then, assuming he’s still alive, he’s done it on his own and in complete obscurity.”

Draco nodded. “Right,” he told her with sudden briskness. “We’ve got to find out where in Wales he is and what name he’s using. You’ll need to –”

“Already on it. Leaving for Carmarthenshire tonight,” Hermione cut in quickly. “Though –”

“You’ll need a contact there, yeah. Of course.” He began rifling through a sheaf of parchments lying haphazardly on his desk. He’d begun sorting through them earlier, before Hermione had arrived, and now he turned back to them with renewed interest. “I’ve got the name and address of somebody who might prove helpful. Somewhere. Hang on… Ah! Good. Found it!”

“Who is it?” Hermione asked curiously, peering over Draco’s shoulder.

“Friend of my mother’s, actually. They were at school together. One of my honourary aunties.”

“Slytherin?”

“Mmm. Don’t worry,” he teased, shaking his head in mock reproach. “She’s really quite nice. I’m surprised at you, Granger! Allowing stereotypes to inform your judgement of a total stranger.”

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes impatiently. “All right, all right! Point taken! What’s her name, anyway?”

Leaning back, he hoisted his feet onto the desk and made himself more comfortable. “Wilhelmina Owen. Auntie Willa. Bit scatterbrained at times, even a bit eccentric, but she’s naturally gifted at transfiguration and herbology, and her potions are occasionally quite brilliant. She’s lived in Wales for ages. Her family goes back generations there. I’ll contact her directly. She’ll be expecting you.”

Hermione jotted the name down quickly and then glanced up. “Okay, good. She’s hooked up to the Floo Network, I assume?”

“As far as I know, yes.” Reaching for the parchment she’d been writing on, Draco scribbled a name. “She lives in Cynwyl Elfed, by the way.” He chuckled briefly. “Try getting your mouth round that one.”

She laughed too, then, shaking her head. “I should get going,” she murmured at last, bending to gather her things.

Quickly, Draco moved to stand between her and the door. “Stay in touch,” he instructed her somberly. “I’ll want a daily report by Floo. And… and watch yourself, yeah? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m incapable of taking care of myself?” Hermione bristled, but her ire was half-hearted. She bit back a tiny smile beneath the show of righteous indignation.

“Absolutely not, you silly cow. But you’ve been known to take chances.”

“You should know! You were right there for most of them!” she fired back with a snort.

He shrugged unapologetically. “And I will be again, if I find out you’ve done something really dodgy. No article is worth your life!”

By this time, he was standing so close that they were practically touching. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her for a long moment. She could feel his warm breath on her face as he gazed down at her. He’d always had such lovely-smelling breath, she found herself reflecting. Fresh and minty. She breathed in the scent, her eyes closing for just a moment, and then she looked up at him solemnly.

“Look, Granger… just be careful, okay? I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow. I don’t care what time.” He looked at her with mock sternness that was leavened by a hint of a grin in the next moment. She nodded, giving him a quick smile in return as she slipped past him and out the door.

Exiting the lift in the lobby, Hermione hurried towards the tall double doors, only to find Ron waiting just outside of them.

“Surprise!” he began. “I thought we could go to dinner somewhere. There’s a –”

“Thanks, Ron,” she cut in hastily. “I really appreciate it, honestly, but I’ve got to go straight home. I’m on assignment, you see, and I’m leaving tonight. I’ve positively loads to do first!”

Looking crestfallen, Ron pursed his lips. “Bloody newspaper,” he grumbled. “Damned good job you’re nearly done with all that! What do you need it for, anyway? Surely not the money. And not the daft schedule. Malfoy’s got you working all hours! I’ve really got to object, Hermione. I’ve been patient, but enough is enough. I thought you were winding things down at this point. If anything, I reckon you’re getting _more_ involved, not less!”

“Sorry, Ron!” Hermione sang out over his words, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Must fly! Talk to you when I get back! Bye!” 

And in the next moment, she was gone. Ron stared, bemused, at the space where she’d been only seconds before. _Bugger._  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The village of Cynwyl Elfed was cloaked in evening shadows when Hermione arrived. She’d placed a call by Floo prior to departing, just to be sure that Draco’s “aunt” would be expecting her.

“Yes, yes, dear, of course, come along! Draco’s already filled me in on your mission,” a cheerful voice had called back from the other side of the flaring green flames.

And so she had tossed down a handful of Floo powder, sung out “the Owen house, Cynwyl Elfed!” and… had promptly landed in the wrong house altogether. There were apparently a number of Owen households in the village. Fortunately, nobody was at home. 

“Try again, luvvie, saying ‘Heron Cottage’ as well!” Willa had laughed merrily, her disembodied voice ringing out as Hermione popped back into her flat. “Should have warned you about that! Apologies!”

The second time had proven to be the charm. This time, she'd stepped out of the fireplace into a large, warm room whose principal feature was the very hearth she’d just arrived in. It was made of stone, centuries old from the look of it. The low ceiling was fitted with wooden beams just as old as the stone hearth, and the fire that sprang up behind her as she stepped out of the hearth cast dancing flickers of light and shadow on the walls. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the beams, infusing the room with the delicate fragrances of lavender, sage, rosemary, catmint, thyme, and fennel. A large braided rug covered most of the stone floor. Books were everywhere, the standing shelves and two tables covered with them. To one side of the hearth, there was a large, black cauldron. Something very hot was inside it, sending up curls of steam that smelled inviting. Hermione wondered what was being brewed.

A diminutive woman in later middle age sat on the sofa, hands folded in her lap and smiling brightly. Beside her, two cats were curled up in languorous repose, one slender and black with a single blaze of white on its chest, and the other a longhaired ginger tabby with a magnificent white ruff. Now the woman moved towards Hermione, her hands held out in greeting.

“So. You are Hermione Granger. As you already know, I am Wilhelmina Owen. But you may call me Willa. Or Auntie Willa, if you prefer. This lovely boy is Pyewacket,” she said, indicating the ginger tabby. “And this little girl is my Agnieszka. Aggie for short.” She gave the slender black cat a fond scratch between the ears and winked at Hermione. “Welcome to my home. Draco has told me all about you. Brightest young lady in your class at Hogwarts. Quite brilliant. A real achiever. And… Muggleborn?”

Hermione nodded, feeling herself tense just a bit. 

“Well, that’s marvellous. I never did approve of the attitude that so many of my own house at school had towards Muggleborns. Even my dear friend Narcissa clung to beliefs that were already antiquated and clearly absurd. Oh dear, I am forgetting my manners. Please. Sit down.” She gestured towards the sofa and then made herself comfortable at one end. “Have you had your supper yet?”

Come to think of it, she hadn’t. Thoughts of food had gone right out of her head when she was rushing about, gathering her things for this trip.

“Actually,” she replied, smiling shyly, “I am a bit hungry.”

“Oh, well then, you must have some of the stew I just made. Everything’s fresh from my garden, all the vegetables and herbs. Picked them this afternoon. I’m a vegetarian, you know. No meat in the stew whatsoever. I hope you don’t mind that.” Willa moved to the cauldron, collected an earthenware bowl from a nearby shelf, and a large ladle. Dipping it into the steaming mixture, she poured a generous helping into the bowl and handed it to Hermione. 

“Oh! You’ll need a spoon, of course! Silly of me! Can’t expect you to drink it like pig swill, can I!” With a hearty laugh, Willa handed Hermione a spoon and then reached for a fragrant loaf just out of the beehive oven. “And here, have some bread. It goes a treat with the stew.”

The stew was delicious, as was the crusty brown bread. The broth was rich and savoury, the seasonings just perfect. Onions, carrots, potatoes, turnips, beets, mushrooms, and eggplant were all tender and flavourful. The aroma itself was heavenly, and for a moment, Hermione just savoured it with several deep, appreciative breaths.

“Thank you so much! It’s wonderful!” she sighed, after nearly inhaling several mouthfuls. 

None of this was what she had expected, given that this woman was a close friend of Narcissa Malfoy’s and had been a member of Slytherin House at school. This house, a cottage really, was far too modest in both size and décor. There was apparently no house-elf serving her, at least none that Hermione had spotted so far. She apparently cooked and gardened for herself. And judging by the dust, she cleaned for herself – or didn’t, much – as well.

Expert gardener, cook, and herbalist, she was also uncannily prescient. Eyes slightly narrowed, she gazed silently at Hermione for a while. The latter had the uncomfortable impression that this older witch was more than just passably good at legilimency. 

“You were expecting something – someone – else, were you not?” she said finally, her pleasant smile still in place.

Hermione nodded, swallowing a spoonful of stew. “Well, yes, to be honest. I thought… well, you know, I thought you’d be much more…”

“Posh? Snobbish?” She laughed briefly. “Well, I could have chosen that lifestyle. It was certainly open to me, with all that would have gone with it. Money, privilege, rank… I was probably one of the very few that rejected all of it, because I couldn’t stomach the values that most people with the same social standing accepted without question. My own family included. They are still in Wales too, but we no longer speak. They do not approve of…” she glanced around her small home. “… of all this. My chosen path.” She punctuated her words with a small chuckle. “I am the black sheep of the Owen family. And there you have it, my dear.”

Well, this was certainly unexpected. And it was even more difficult to believe that her friendship with Narcissa Malfoy had endured, given the circumstances of the past several decades. Her confusion must have shown clearly on her face, because Willa smiled.

“You’re wondering about the Malfoys, I take it. Lucius in particular.”

Hermione nodded.

“He doesn’t approve of me. Never has, not even when we were at school. Fortunately, Narcissa has chosen never to disavow our friendship and to encourage the relationship I have with her son, not that I was able to see either of them all that much. I suspect she hoped that whatever little contact I did have would counteract some of what Draco was getting from his father. In that regard, I failed miserably, judging by what I know of his childhood and adolescence. But then, the whole world was going a bit mad, wasn’t it. He must have been horribly confused and in desperate need of his father’s approval. I was out of the picture for years. I think Narcissa felt fairly helpless during all of that terrible time.”

All of what she said made sense. And yet, it was intriguing as well, not just because this older witch was such a complex persona in her own right. For Hermione, it also shed new light on her ex-husband, adding a dimension to his personality that had previously been unknown to her. He’d never mentioned his Auntie Willa in the two years they were married or since, until now. She wondered why.

“I don’t believe you failed, Aunt Willa. May I call you that?” Hermione asked, smiling. Willa nodded. “Because Draco isn’t the person he was, growing up. He was… well… he wasn’t very nice when we were at school, especially to people like me. He was horrid, actually. But the war changed him. He’s different now. We were… did he tell you that we were married for a while?”

The older witch bent to pour some tea from a kettle into a large ceramic mug. She blew on it for a moment, steam rising in a small cloud around her face, and then took a small sip. “Yes. He did. And quite frankly, I probably shouldn’t say this, but… he still loves you. Are you aware of that?”

Hermione had wondered if this particular avenue of conversation would arise. Now that it had, she felt almost relieved. Willa Owen was surprisingly easy to talk to. She would have to be very careful not to get too comfortable, however, or she might wind up revealing things she hadn’t wanted to share.

Now she nodded, her expression almost mournful. “I know. But it could never work between us. We’re both workaholics, but he’s far worse than I am. He lives, eats, and breathes the newspaper. You could hardly call what we had a marriage. I want a family someday. I want a life outside of work. I don’t think he could ever give me that.”

“But do you love him?” The quiet question was impertinent, but somehow forgivable, given that this woman was practically family to Draco. For all Hermione knew, maybe he’d actually asked his auntie to have this conversation with his ex. She wouldn’t put it past him.

This was one question she really did not wish to answer right now. Her silence was far more eloquent than any words, however, and Willa smiled wistfully. For the time being, the conversation ended there.  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

“The Blue Bell Inn would probably be a good place to start,” Willa remarked the next day over tea. “It’s our local pub, and everybody in the village turns up at one time or another. We’re not much more than a hamlet really. Everyone knows everyone else. Probably too well.”

“And everyone’s business, too, I take it.” Hermione popped a bit of buttered crumpet into her mouth and nodded. “Great idea. I’ll go there this afternoon. Will you come along? It might be easier if somebody they know is with me. I won’t seem like a suspicious outsider.”

Willa chuckled as she took a sip of her tea. “You will anyway. Cynwyl Elfed is very insulated. So all strangers do. But perhaps not quite so much. I should warn you, though,” she added. “Many of the locals view me as the village eccentric puttering about with my herbs and cats. I’m very careful to cultivate that image without giving away anything of real substance.”

“I promise not to disabuse them of that notion,” Hermione assured her host, smiling “We’ll just go and have a drink and see what we can find out.” 

“In the meantime, perhaps I can help in some other way. My scrying stone, for one. It’s possible I can get some sort of insight into the whereabouts of the man you’re looking for. Richard Carmody, his name is?”

“That’s right. Oh yes, please!” Hermione’s heart sped up just a bit. “I wish I had a recent picture of him. I’ve no clue what he looks like now. All I’ve got is a very old photo. He’d be in his middle fifties now. This photo was taken when he was a teenager.”

She held out a picture and Willa plucked it out of her hand, bringing it close to study it. What she saw were a man, a woman, and three children, all boys, two in their teens and the third a bit younger. Four of the five people were smiling glibly. In stark contrast, the oldest son was looking pinched and sad. His brother was actively pushing him behind the others and blocking him in an obvious attempt to keep him out of view.

“Oh my,” Willa murmured. “This tells a very sad story, doesn’t it.” She sighed and sat back on the sofa. “I remember the Carmodys now. Serious social climbers and dreadful snobs. And very much in favour of racial purity, keeping magic exclusively for Purebloods. It won’t surprise you to know that they hated Muggleborns as much as they did Squibs. Alec Carmody was in my house at school, though he was a few years behind me. Obviously, I never met Richard. We all knew, somewhat vaguely, that Alec had an older brother, but nobody knew what had happened to him. There were all sorts of stories. Hmm… He and his brother looked very much alike, I see.”

“Yes, they did. I noticed that as well. I wonder if that’s part of why Alec seemed to hate his brother so much. Maybe he saw himself in his brother and what his life would have been like without magic.” Hermione curled her legs beneath her on the sofa, lost suddenly in speculation.

”Let’s see... I’ve got my scrying stone right here somewhere,” Willa muttered, rooting around in a large crocheted bag she’d pulled from the space between the sofa and one of the bookcases. “Got it!”

The scrying stone was made of obsidian, black as a moonless, cloudless night and very shiny. Willa held it with great care in both hands and sat back on the sofa, her gaze becoming unfocused as she stared into the depths of the stone.

Hermione watched, holding her breath, paying attention to the smallest variations of expression on the older witch’s face. She watched as Willa’s breathing became deep and rhythmic. Time slowed and everything seemed suspended in a magical vacuum, time out of time. Abruptly, her gaze regained its focus with a sort of snap, and she stared at the stone, narrowing her eyes as if to be sure of what she was seeing.

“Look!” she whispered, and there was a sense of urgency in her voice now. “Come and look!”

Excited, Hermione moved to sit next to Willa and peered down at the stone. There, amidst smoky vapours, there was the fuzzy image of a man. His face was obscured. But his general outline was plain to see: the shape of his head, his posture, the overall look of the man. Hermione stared, transfixed. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. _Where had she seen him before?_

Willa had noticed the sudden, sharp intake of breath that Hermione had involuntarily taken. “Do you recognise him? Do you know who he is?”

She didn’t. Deflated, Hermione sat back against the pillows and sighed. “No, I have no idea who he is. He looks familiar, though, and I can’t work out why or how!”

Willa smiled sagely. “The answer will come to you in its own time. Don’t force it. In the meantime, let’s take a walk. I’ll show you round our little village. We’ll stop at the Blue Bell and you can put some feelers out.”  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Cynwyl Elfed was a storybook village made up of winding roads, farms, rolling pastureland behind fences, dense woodland, and a town centre of old stone and brick buildings mashed together higgledy-piggledy, with narrow, cobbled streets, and a roofline of variegated brick chimneys. Hermione and Willa strolled together along a narrow lane that led from her cottage to the centre of the village and the Blue Bell Inn.

It was a tidy, whitewashed house with red trim. Inside were two main rooms: the wooded bar area on one side, and a dining room on the other. A large brick hearth at the far end of the bar had a cheerful fire going, its warmth much appreciated on this chilly, early-autumn afternoon.

At this hour, some patrons were enjoying a very late lunch, others an early supper, and the rest a relaxing drink at the long, highly polished bar. Willa gestured for the two of them to find seats there and then she turned to the barman with a friendly nod.

“Good day, John,” she said cheerfully. “How are you this fine afternoon, then?”

The barman, a burly, ruddy-faced man in his middle forties, cracked a grin as he gave the bar a quick wipe with a large cloth he then slung over his shoulder. “Can’t complain, Willa. Can’t complain. And yourself?”

“Very well indeed,” Willa replied with a bright smile. “Allow me to introduce this young lady, who is visiting me for a few days. She’s the daughter of an old friend of mine. Hermione Granger, meet John Powell. He knows everything there is to know about Cynwyl Elfed. He’ll be the one you want to talk to regarding your project.”

_My ‘project’! What IS my project?_ She hadn’t given it any advance thought, which was completely ridiculous and not at all like her.

“Pleasure to meet you, young lady. And what project would that be, then?”

“Oh, well,” Hermione said hastily. “I’m a student, you see, and I’m doing research on… on… the rate of growth of small towns and villages like this one over the past thirty years. Who lives here, how the demographic has changed, that sort of thing.” She laughed lightly, hoping her sudden nerves weren’t obvious.

Apparently, they weren’t, because the barman merely gave her a smile and a nod. “What’s your pleasure, ladies?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

“Cider, if you please. Two,” Willa replied promptly. “And a bowl of those lovely pretzels of yours.” She turned to Hermione and grinned conspiratorially. “I’d come here just for those pretzels. They’re that good.”

A minute later, two tall glasses of amber liquid were set down before them, along with the requested bowl of crunchy, honeyed pretzels and a plate of white cheese slices in a black casing.

“This here cheese is called Black Bomber,” the barman informed Hermione. “Very mild and creamy. Try it. On the house.”

It was truly delectable. Hermione let it melt on her tongue before chasing it down with one of the pretzels. “It’s yummy,” she sighed happily. “Thanks! And now, would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

“Ask away.” John gave her a nod and began busying himself with polishing glasses. 

“Okay, so… for starters… has there been much change in the area in the last thirty years? Much in the way of new people coming into the area, older people leaving?”

“Not really much, now that I think on it. People hereabouts tend to stay put, even when they get on in years. Pensioners don’t want to move away. They have what they need right here, and people who’ll look after them if needed. This is a tight-knit community, Miss Granger. We look after our own.”

“So… the demographic has remained pretty much the same, then, right?”

He nodded, then turned to replace some glasses on their shelf behind the bar.

“What about the neighbouring towns and villages? Would you say the same is true for them? What’s closest to Cynwyl Elfed?”

“Closest ones are Blaen-y-coed, Cwnduad, and Bronwydd, which is round about four miles from here. Yeah, I would say the same is true for them as well. Not much movement at all, in or out. Which is why when somebody does move here from elsewhere, we hear about it.” He laughed heartily then. “Town of busybodies! The further away a stranger is from, the more the gossip!”

Hermione’s ears pricked up and she tried not to show her sudden excitement. “Oh? Did that happen recently, then?”

John scratched his head and thought for a moment. “Not recently, no. But about… oh, I’d say maybe about twenty-five or thirty years ago, somebody came to these parts all the way from London. Young man, he was. No more than about twenty. All on his own too. Took over a dilapidated cottage and kept to himself. Pleasant enough, but something of a recluse. He raised a lot of gossip, I can tell you!”

Hermione’s excitement was building to the point that she nearly had to sit on her hands to keep them from shaking. “So he lived here, then? In Cynwyl Elfed?”

“Not here,” John replied, topping off their glasses. “Bronwydd, if I recall correctly. Far as I know, he’s still there, though nobody’s actually seen him for a while. There’s been a deal of talk about that, too.”

Sparks were igniting in Hermione’s brain even as the barman continued to talk. _Richard Carmody. In Bronwydd._ It could be nobody else. And only four miles from where they were now sitting and enjoying a glass of cider. 

She knew what she needed to do now.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Getting to Bronwydd would be the easy part. Willa had an old Ford Anglia that she got a kick out of driving and which was a real necessity in any case, as she did not live within the protective confines of a wizarding community. Use of apparition and portkeys anywhere near Muggles was out of the question. Far too risky. Instead, she offered to drive Hermione to Bronwydd and help her find Richard Carmody’s house.

The evening before, Hermione crouched by the hearth, on the verge of reaching out to Draco by Floo, when quite suddenly, his head appeared in Willa’s hearth, flames crackling around his face like an eerie green halo. Startled, Hermione lost her balance and sat down hard, her heart racing.

“What the hell, Granger!” he barked. “You promised you’d stay in touch on a daily basis! It’s been three whole days!”

“Sorry, Malfoy,” she told him hastily. “I meant to, I really did! And I was about to call you anyway just now, I swear. Listen, I’ve a lot to tell you!”

Keen interest in the case outweighed any annoyance and worry Draco might still have been feeling, and he leaned forward eagerly. “Spill!”

“Well, I found out that someone who sounds very much like he could be Richard Carmody has been living in a little village called Bronwydd for the past thirty-odd years and keeping a very low profile. In fact, I heard he’s basically been something of a recluse. Bronwydd is only a few miles from your aunt’s place. She’s going to take me there tomorrow for a look round. I’m hoping I can find him and he’ll be willing to tell me something.” ‘Something that will clearly incriminate his brother, who already seems guilty as sin,’ she couldn’t help thinking. “The thing is, my source here did say that Carmody hasn’t been seen much lately. He might be away. I’m hoping that isn’t the case.”

“Is that it? Doesn’t seem like a whole lot to go on,” Draco observed. “Though yeah, if it is Carmody’s Squib brother, knowing where he’s been all this time definitely helps. Finding him will be even better. Assuming Alec Carmody was in fact involved in a conspiracy to frame Artemius Branwood, that is. Having a Squib brother in itself doesn’t prove anything.” 

Hermione nodded slowly. “Right. There is something else, though admittedly, it’s not much to go on. Willa used her scrying stone to see if she could raise an image of Richard Carmody.” 

“And? Anything?” Draco raised a curious eyebrow.

“Yes and no. She did get an image of a man, but it was hazy and dark. I couldn’t see facial features clearly. But Draco, he looked familiar! I just couldn’t work out exactly how or why! I’m hoping to have another go. Maybe the image will resolve if we try again.”

Draco’s expression softened then, and he peered around the room. “How is my Auntie Willa?”

“I’m very annoyed that it’s been so long since I’ve heard from _you_, Draco Malfoy. That’s how I am, since you ask,” Willa teased. She’d come into the room from upstairs and now she pulled up a chair close to the fire. “You’ve neglected your old auntie shamefully!”

Draco laughed fondly. “Guilty! It won’t happen again, I promise!”

Now it was Willa’s turn to laugh. “Yes, it will, if I know you. It’s all right, though. I know you’re working hard. Hermione has told me how _devoted_ you are to that newspaper…” She paused, flashing him a knowing half-smile. “… which I read from cover to cover, by the way! When I can get a copy, of course. My owl service has been rather spotty lately. Can you do something about that?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Auntie. Anyway, look, I’ve got to go. It was so good to see you. Look after Hermione, will you?”

At that, Hermione opened her mouth, ready to launch into a self-righteous retort along the lines that she was more than competent to take care of herself, thank you very much, and that he needn’t worry. But Willa’s hand on her arm stayed the words she’d been about to say.

Draco turned back to Hermione then, his expression a combination of excitement at the new developments, admiration, and lingering concern. “Talk to you _tomorrow_, Granger, yeah? I’ll be expecting a full report! Don’t forget!”

“Yes, okay. Tomorrow. Promise. Goodnight, Malfoy,” she said quietly. He looked back at her and nodded, and now there was something else in his eyes. It stayed with her long after the fire-call had ended.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
The following afternoon was overcast, threatening rain. The gloom only added to the foreboding Hermione was already feeling, though she really couldn’t pinpoint the reason. This day’s mission was really tantamount to searching for a sort of ghost, though not a literal one, she hoped. At this point, she couldn’t be sure of what she would find. For her, Richard Carmody haunted these parts just as surely as if he were a ghost.

It was a quick drive to Bronwydd, which was very much like Cynwyl Elfed in appearance. There were the same rolling hills and pastureland, dotted with sheep or cows, the same narrow, winding, cobbled streets in the centre of the village, hemmed in on both sides by old stone and brick houses. 

They stopped to ask for directions, Willa sticking her head out of the car to flag a passerby down.

“Carmody? Sorry, don’t know anyone by that name round here,” they were told by an elderly man trudging along with a sack of groceries. A variation of that same response was repeated twice more by other villagers.

“Hmm,” Hermione muttered, frustrated. And then her head snapped up and she sighed. “Of _course!_ Nobody would know him by his real name here! How did I not remember that? I am so stupid!”

Willa laughed gently. “Stupid is the last thing I would call you, dear. It was a very natural oversight.”

“Thanks.” The younger witch grinned. “Let’s stop for that woman up ahead. She might know something, if I ask the right question!”

They drew alongside a middle-aged woman walking her dog. Hermione rolled down the window of the ancient Ford Anglia.

“Excuse me,” she called out. “I’m trying to find someone who I was told lives hereabout. He’d be in his mid-fifties. English. Bit of a recluse. Moved here about thirty years ago. Do you know anyone who fits that description?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed and she scrutinised Hermione with obvious suspicion. “What you want to know for, then? Has he done something wrong?”

“No, no! He’s… he’s actually…” Hermione thought quickly. “… a long-lost relative of mine! My… my birth father.” Now she was warming to the yarn she was spinning. “I’m adopted, you see, and I’ve been searching for him for ages. I’ve finally tracked him down to this part of Wales. But the name I have for him is probably not his real name. I would be ever so grateful if you could help me!” 

She turned a wide-eyed, beseeching gaze on the woman, whose expression had relaxed into a thoughtful half-smile upon hearing Hermione’s story. 

“Well, now you ask, there is a gentleman I do remember. He lives close by here, up that lane yonder. Can’t recall his name, though I do know he’s English. Tall, lanky chap. Keeps himself to himself, mostly. Loves to read. We have a lovely little bookshop here in Bronwydd, and I’ve often seen him with a book. Always looks a bit tattered and thin. Probably spends whatever he has mostly on books instead of food or clothing.”

“I love to read too,” Hermione murmured, suddenly moved by the very human picture that was emerging of Richard Carmody’s exile in Wales. 

“Just you follow that lane up the hill about a quarter of a mile. His cottage is there close to the road, with a big field behind. Small house, just one room. He lives frugally. Good luck!” The woman smiled and nodded her goodbye. Then she stopped and turned back. “Oh! Now I think on it, I haven’t actually seen him in quite some time. I’d forgotten all about him till you asked. He may have moved on, for all I know. Well, good luck!” she repeated.

“Thank you!” Hermione breathed, and she climbed back into the car. She glanced at Willa, who was watching her thoughtfully.

“Do you think that’s your man?” she asked eventually.

“I do. I feel it in my bones,” Hermione replied, nodding decisively. “If we’re lucky, he’ll either still be there, more reclusive than ever, or if not, he’ll have left something behind, maybe a diary or some letters, that will tell us more. I just want to know for certain if he’s Richard Carmody. And it would be amazing luck if I could find something, anything, that would confirm Alec Carmody’s part in the plot to burn down the Ministry and kill Shacklebolt.” She sighed deeply and glanced out the car window at the passing houses. “I’m asking for too much.”

Willa gave her a determined grin and turned her gaze to the road ahead. “We shall see.”

The cottage was small and unassuming, rather run down and neglected. Hermione had a suspicion that it had probably looked this way years ago as well, just not quite to this extreme. There had been a garden once. Remnants of it remained, choked with weeds. A couple of flowerpots stood woefully empty on one of the stone window ledges. It was difficult to believe that anyone actually lived here now, but anything was possible, given this particular scenario.

Warily, she pushed at the wooden door. And then she gave a second, harder push, and it moved a few inches, groaning in protest. A wave of dust assailed her nostrils and she stepped back with a sneeze, waving the cloud away from her face. Glancing at Willa, she pushed the door open wider, and the interior of the cottage came into view.

From its appearance and stale odour, it was clear that nobody had lived in this place for years. It had been abandoned, and it appeared as if this leave-taking had been neither planned nor anticipated. There were dirty dishes still on the table. A narrow cot in one corner was still unmade, its bedclothes rumpled. Food in the fridge had gone bad long before. The smell was rank. 

Gagging, Hermione sprang back, tears streaming from her eyes, and hastily slammed the fridge door shut. Willa hadn’t fared much better, but she had not drawn as close to the offending odours, so she was quicker to regain her composure.

“Merlin!” she breathed. “I hope we don’t find a corpse!”

Hermione had already taken a quick look at the upstairs storage loft and now she called from the small cellar, “Nope. No corpses here, thank the gods!”

“Ugh, creepy!” she muttered, brushing herself down with a small shudder and sliding her wand back into a pocket. “Spider webs and rot everywhere!” Standing in the centre of the small main room, she glanced around carefully. “There must be something… ” 

And then she spotted it.

There was a bookcase against the far wall containing rows of books, including one of bound leather, fraying at the edges. That was it. Gut instinct was setting off a whole symphony of alarm bells in her head. 

Rushing to the shelf, she grabbed the leather-bound book and sat down, absently brushing away dust and spider webs from the chair. 

The first page, yellowing with age, had a name handwritten again and again in huge, defiant letters.  
  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
RICHARD PETER CARMODY  
  
The second page had another entry, this one dated 4 February 1975. It was brief and to the point.

_Thanks, Father. Thanks, Alec. Thanks and FUCK YOU. Rot in hell forever, you bastards! I HATE YOU. FUCK OFF. FUCK YOUR FILTHY SOULS._

Virtually every single page after that, no matter what else was written, contained the words RICHARD PETER CARMODY at the top. There were brief notes about purchases made or things needed. But they were sporadic and sparse, until near the end. 

The final, rather cryptic entry was dated 28 June 2006. 

_Something’s happening. I can feel it. I may have gone too far. I think they know. I need to leave here. _

Suddenly, something like an electric shock exploded in Hermione’s brain. The attempted murder of Kingsley Shacklebolt and the arson attack on the Ministry had taken place in April of 2006. Artemius Branwood’s subsequent arrest happened in early July of that same year, his trial and conviction the following September. In that same brief time period, Richard Carmody had mysteriously vanished from the Welsh cottage in which he had lived for the previous thirty-one years, never to return. 

“Bloody hell,” Hermione exclaimed. “Look at this! I was right! It really _was_ Richard Carmody living here! But more importantly, Carmody disappeared from here under very suspicious circumstances at exactly the same time that Branwood was arrested, tried, convicted, and–” 

“Sent to Azkaban,” Willa finished grimly.

“Branwood…" Hermione murmured slowly. “Branwood… _Bronwydd_… oh, gods!” She swallowed hard, blanching. “Of course! He was hiding in plain sight, wasn’t he, using a pseudonym that told the world exactly where he was the whole time - if they recognised the clue. Which nobody did, apparently, for years. So he was able to travel between England and Wales using his new alias and work for the Squib cause without being detected. Though of course, his family knew where he was the whole time. 

“Eventually, he found himself out on a limb, I suppose, getting into the Ministry’s face with criticism once too often. And I bet that’s when the whole plot was concocted to frame him and get him out of the way for good. Gods!” she breathed. “To do that to your own brother! He wrote in his last entry, ‘I may have gone too far. I think they know.’ That could mean one of two things.”

“Either he actually did the crimes, despite his claim that he was framed, or he truly is innocent. That remains to be seen,” Willa remarked pointedly. “Though I believe him.”

“Me too! That ‘I think they know’ is pretty ominous. He mustn’t have had enough time to get away before they came for him. It must have been very sudden. Oh, Merlin!” Hermione exclaimed, turning sharply to Willa. "That figure you conjured in your scrying stone! It was Richard Carmody, aka Artemius Branwood! I met him last month. Thinking back, I totally see it, even as murky as that image was! He looks dreadful now, you know. He’s very ill. He won’t live much longer, unless the healers at St. Mungo’s can work a miracle. Your scrying stone told the truth! I just wasn’t ready to see it the other day!”

“Come, my dear,” Willa said, beckoning to Hermione. “Let’s go back to my house. Take the journal with you.” 

Hermione was way ahead of her, the precious journal tucked safely in her rucksack. She would have quite a lot to tell Malfoy this evening. She couldn’t wait.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/48770118336/in/album-72157711002564423/)

The village of Cynwyl Elfed, by Christopher Hall

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

The clock on the mantel read half eleven. Exactly three minutes later than the last time Draco had checked. 

Where the hell was Hermione? Why hadn’t she checked in with him, as she’d promised? He’d expected her fire-call call in the early evening. Nothing. Seven o’clock had become eight. Eight had become nine, and then ten. And then eleven-fifteen. 

“She’ll call. She will. She’s just forgotten, that’s all,” he told himself. 

‘Even after she promised faithfully?’ a niggling voice inside his head reminded him.

“Shut up,” he told himself irritably. “_She’ll call_.”

At two minutes after midnight, he’d had enough. Clearly, she was not going to make that fire-call tonight. Given the potentially inflammatory nature of the investigation she was conducting, she really had a nerve worrying him this way, especially after she’d promised not to do it again. 

Grumbling to himself about professionalism and responsibility, not to mention simple consideration, he stomped over to the fireplace to make a fire-call of his own.

Tossing a handful of Floo powder into the fire, he stuck his head in and called, “Heron Cottage, Cynwyl Elfed!”

A second later, a view of Willa’s sitting room swam into view, surrounded by curls of green flames. Lights were on. He could see her two cats curled up and snuggling cosily on the sofa. A coffee mug was on a side table. A book lay open beside it. However, the room was empty.

“Auntie Willa! Hermione!” he called out, but nobody answered. He called again, more loudly this time. Still nothing. This was troubling. He felt his stomach clench with the beginnings of real anxiety. It was a small enough house that surely one of them would have heard him. 

There was a sudden scratching and tapping noise behind him. Jumping up, he turned quickly to find an owl pecking at his window. 

“Bloody hell, what …?” he began, hurrying over to accept the message. Cracking open the window, he pulled a small, tightly rolled parchment from a band on the owl’s left leg and unrolled it.

_Call off your attack dog. The story is dead. Just like she will be if you don’t. You’ve been warned._

A surge of fear-spiked adrenaline coursed through him, and without thinking twice, he stuffed the note into a pocket, grabbed his wand, and ran back to the fireplace. 

“Heron Cottage, Cynwyl Elfed!” he shouted again, stepping inside this time and dashing a handful of Floo powder to the floor of the hearth. He disappeared in an explosion of green flames, reappearing in Aunt Willa’s hearth a few seconds later.

The first priority was to find Hermione and Willa. He commenced a thorough search of Willa’s old stone house. It wasn’t until he was climbing cautiously down the narrow steps to the cellar that he heard a sharp hiss.

“Pssst! Malfoy! Over here!”

The cellar was pitch black, but suddenly, a tiny yellow light appeared, just the size of a wand tip. He looked towards it, and as he did, the ball of light grew to the size of a large apple. Behind it, he could see Hermione’s face, illuminated from below and looking decidedly eerie. 

“Granger!” In that moment, he felt nearly faint with relief. He hurried towards her and grasped her by the shoulders, pulling her to him. “What the hell is going on? I didn’t hear from you tonight, and then I got a message by owl, telling me to stop this story, stop _you_. It insinuated that you’d be dead if I didn’t.”

“I got pretty much the same message. Somebody knows what I’m doing and doesn’t like it much.” Hermione laughed ruefully. “Now there’s an understatement.” She rested her forehead on his chest for just a moment longer and then pulled away.

“What are you doing down here in the cellar? And where’s Willa?” Draco asked suddenly, as if he’d only just remembered where they were.

“Ssh,” she cautioned. “I’m pretty sure the house is bugged. We’re probably safest down here, but still. At the very least, we’re being watched. There’s no doubt about that. Willa’s outside, checking the house for any listening devices. I’ve been over it and over it in my mind, Malfoy. Who could know why I’m here, and how? It comes down to two possibilities: one is Alastair Musgrave.” 

“Your source at the Ministry?” Draco scowled. “I never did trust that arse-kissing wanker, not really. But you always assured me that he was all right!”

Hermione pursed her lips in a frown and nodded. “I’m thinking he might have been ‘persuaded’ to tell somebody we’re investigating Ministry insiders.”

“Classic double-cross,” he spat in disgust. “Reckon he was out to make as much from this situation as he possibly could.”

“Or he was blackmailed into telling what he knew. If it was Carmody who did this, and I’d bet anything it was, who knows? He might have had some dirt on Musgrave as well. I bet he’s got dirt on half the Ministry!”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Draco muttered grimly. “He seems like the type. Who’s the other likely suspect?”

“Well, it would have to be somebody I talked to when I was trying to find out about Richard Carmody. Oh, my gosh, Draco, I haven’t even had a chance to tell you! We actually found his house! He did live in Bronwydd for decades, as we thought. Until a few years ago, when he suddenly vanished. And I found _this_ in his house.” She reached into her rucksack and pulled out the leather-bound book. “And here’s the really huge thing, Malfoy. Artemius Branwood _is_ Richard Carmody!”

“What! How do you know for sure?”

She nodded vigorously. “It’s true! His alias comes from the name of the village he lived in. Think about it! Branwood. Bronwydd. I suspect he moved between here and England to work for Squib rights undetected for years and years. But the real dead giveaway is the timeline. Carmody disappeared from Bronwydd only days before ‘Branwood’ was arrested, and then tried and sent to Azkaban. He knew he was in trouble. I believe he saw it coming. It’s all in here. See for yourself.” She tapped the journal. “As well as a lot of vitriol against his family for disowning him and sending him into exile. Oh, and…” She paused, grinning mysteriously and clearly relishing the drama. “There’s one more thing. The pièce de résistance. I found these in a large envelope stuck into the back of the journal.”

She held up a packet of letters tied together with a black shoelace. They were clearly old, their edges worn and frayed, the florid handwriting fading. “Letters to Richard Carmody. From his mother,” she murmured. “She must have sent them in secret. Nobody would’ve noticed the very occasional owl lighting on his window ledge, not where he lived surrounded by woods. Malfoy, look who they’re addressed to.”

Artemius Branwood.

That was it. Draco expelled an explosive breath and shook his head in obvious admiration, as he flipped through the letters. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Granger. This is amazing stuff!” He thought for a moment. “You never did say who you thought the other possibilities were that could have exposed you.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “There were two people I spoke to yesterday who remembered Carmody, though of course they’d have known him as Branwood. One was the barman in Willa’s local pub here in Cynwyl Elfed. The other was a woman out walking her dog in Bronwydd. She’s the one who directed us to his cottage. I suppose it’s possible that somebody who wanted to put a stop to this investigation could have found out that I’d spoken with them. Maybe I was overheard. Seems rather a stretch, though.” 

“Well, you never know, and we can’t be too careful in any case. Let’s assume the worst. Somebody, maybe more than one person, blew your cover and others are hell bent on stopping you. We’ve got to get you back to England in one piece and publish this story as soon as possible!” He paused and looked around, listening intently. “I reckon it’s safe to go upstairs now. Not a word about any of this up there, yeah?”

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes in disgust. “Did you really think you needed to tell me that, Malfoy? Honestly!”

Draco stifled the full-on laugh that bubbled up in his chest, but he couldn’t completely hide the fond grin that briefly ghosted across his face. That was Granger, true to form no matter what. Bossy, prickly, infuriatingly self-righteous at times, but also totally committed to the challenge once she’d taken an assignment on, and willing to take just about any risk. A real crusader for causes. Tough. Fearless. And brilliant.

The last three qualities alone made all the feistiness and ego bearable. They’d butted heads plenty over the last six years of working together. Neither of them had ever been very good at backing down. But he knew a gem when he saw one. And right now, he needed to protect that gem with everything he had.

“Sorry,” he chuckled at last. “Can’t help it, can I. Just being cautious. Part of the job.”

Hermione quirked a sceptical eyebrow, but she relented at last. “Yes, okay. I suppose I can’t really blame you. We can’t take any chances.”

Now Draco’s smile turned appealingly winsome. “Am I forgiven, then?” he asked softly, moving a step closer, close enough to smell the vanilla scent of her hair.

In the inky darkness of the cellar, the only light at the tips of their wands, her eyes were luminous and huge. “Maybe,” she allowed at last, and then abruptly, she brushed past him. “Sorry for snapping.” 

“It’s okay, darling,” he said lightly. “Reckon I can handle it.”

She was already halfway up the narrow staircase out of the cellar, but at this, she shot him a half-amused, half-irritated glance over her shoulder. 

“Right behind you, my love,” he muttered to himself and began the climb as well.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
They took their leave of Willa almost immediately upon exiting the cellar.

“Don’t be such a stranger from now on,” she said with mock sternness to Draco. “This hardly counts as a visit, and I’ve missed you, you know. It’s been ages. Come anytime.” She gave him a fond hug, holding him close for a long moment. 

“Thanks, Auntie Willa.” Draco grinned affectionately, sliding an arm about her waist. “What about coming to visit me in London? Bright lights, big city, spicy Indian curries, champagne… all your favourites!” 

“Very tempting, I must admit, your company notwithstanding. Especially the curries and the champagne.” She laughed ruefully. “Though I suspect they won’t be quite as kind to my digestion now as they were when I was younger. And you,” she added, turning to Hermione. “I don’t get much in the way of company, and most of the time, I don’t miss it. I fancy myself a bit of a loner. I’ve got Pyewacket and Aggie, and that’s fine. But it’s been really lovely having you. I hope you’ll come back and visit sometime. Perhaps together?” Willa winked and smiled mischievously before drawing Hermione in for a warm hug as well. 

“Thank you so much! You’ve been amazing. I would love to come visit again sometime!” There was genuine regret there, surprising Hermione. It had only been a few days, but she’d truly enjoyed getting to know this woman who’d begun to feel very much like her own aunt. Time spent at Heron Cottage had been, in a way, a bit like a tiny oasis. She could really understand the appeal of a snug, out-of-the-way cottage in the country and the simplicity of a life so directly connected to nature, removed from the pressures of the city.

Things moved at breakneck speed after that. The first priority was to return to London and attract as little attention in the process as possible. Travel via the Floo Network was potentially risky, and Draco was loath to have Hermione travel on her own. She already had a target on her back, and he would be damned if he gave in to her insistence that she’d be perfectly fine and didn’t require an escort or bodyguard. Namely him. And Portkeys could be tampered with, sending the user or users somewhere else entirely – in this case, straight into the hands of whoever had already threatened both of them.

They would Apparate, and they’d do it together, her arm firmly threaded through his. Draco insisted, and Hermione really had no choice but to agree. Immediately after saying their farewells to Willa, they were gone, materialising again in Draco’s flat.

“You’re staying here until all this is over,” he said firmly, allowing no opposition. 

Hermione’s mouth opened just once to protest. Then she closed it again and simply nodded. 

“You can have my bed. I’ll sleep here on the sofa,” he continued. “First thing tomorrow, you’ll get the piece written. Here. And the sooner the better, really, for your own safety. Can you get it sorted?” 

“Your safety too,” she put in pointedly. “And yes. I can. The first installment, anyway. I see this as a three-part series, at least. There’s certainly enough material.” 

“Brilliant.” Glancing at the mantel clock that showed 3 AM, he yawned widely and gave her a sleepy grin. “Don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I’ll leave you something to sleep in and a clean towel in the loo. Whatever else you need, just help yourself. You know where everything is.”

She did. Malfoy was nothing if not a creature of habit. His flat hadn’t changed one iota in the three years since she’d called it home. There was something oddly comforting about that, even now.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
The following day was one of hunkering down and working for both of them, Hermione consulting her notes and writing furiously in the quiet of the bedroom while Draco managed Prophet operations from the sitting room with a series of Floo consults.

“We should get hold of Potter,” he’d remarked at breakfast, while Hermione put up a pot of strong coffee. “We’re dealing with corruption within the Ministry. But at this point, we’ve got to be able to trust Magical Law Enforcement, at the very least.”

“Harry’s incorruptible,” she had replied matter of factly, pouring out two mugs of the dark, aromatic coffee she loved. 

“You don’t have to persuade me of that,” Draco had snorted. “Saint Potter! In a good way, of course,” he hastened to add, catching a pointedly raised eyebrow from his ex-wife. “No ill will. That was all over years ago.”

“Of _course_ it was,” Hermione had said firmly, and that was that.

“Anyway,” he’d continued, “we need protection. Besides, it’s our civic duty to alert MLE to what we found – or rather, what you found – as well as the very real threats we’ve both had. Do you want to put in the fire-call or shall I do it?”

“I will,” Hermione had replied promptly. “I’ve got all the details, stuff you haven’t even had a real look at yet. There hasn’t been time.”

“Right, then. Call me when you’ve got him.” 

Interestingly, Harry wasn’t nearly as surprised about the whole dirty business as both Hermione and Draco had expected he’d be. 

“We’ve had our eye on some of these people for ages,” he told them, after Hermione had filled him in. “Certain individuals fairly high up on the food chain have been in our sights for years. Well before the Branwood arrest and conviction, and definitely since. But they’ve got things buttoned up really tightly. They’re not stupid and they’re definitely not careless. They don’t leave a trail. I wish Branwood –or I should say Carmody – had come to me with all this. Though I don’t blame him, really, for staying away from any part of the Ministry after such a probable miscarriage of justice. You may well be right about everything – you probably are – but without Carmody’s escape from Azkaban, I doubt any of this would have come to light, or at least not so decisively. You’ve done an amazing job, Hermione. Ever consider working for me?” Harry grinned at his old friend.

She giggled at that. “No! Hardly! Seriously, though, what happens now?”

“There should be a couple of agents posted outside your door, Malfoy, in about five minutes, and another two on the street, incognito. I’ll have another four in and outside your flat, Hermione. Same with the Prophet offices. Ron’s house too.”

Ron. 

She’d quite forgotten about him with all the craziness of the past several days. 

“Right, yes… good idea,” she murmured, a wave of guilt tingeing her cheeks with a hot blush.

The look on her face and that blush had not escaped Harry’s attention, nor Draco’s for that matter. Both studied her thoughtfully, each drawing his own conclusions.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
The first installment of the article hit the front page of the Prophet early the following morning and the wizarding world woke up to the news of its governing body undergoing a shake-up all the way up to the highest officials surrounding the Minister of Magic. At precisely the same time, Alec Carmody was being grilled by Harry and two other Aurors in the interrogation room of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

The questioning did not go particularly well initially. Carmody refused to answer a single question. Harry had hoped for more, but had expected nothing. It was time for Veritaserum. Carmody must have known that was coming, because he stared at the vial, his eyes wild with sudden apprehension. Still, he pressed his lips together and said nothing until he was forced to open his mouth and swallow the liquid. After that, everything came gushing out in a furious, vengeful torrent of rage and resentment dating back decades.

The second installment contained his entire confession, right down to how long he’d plotted, how he’d arrived at the plan, who else was involved, and why he was driven to ruin his brother Richard – how he’d hated Richard so deeply and for so long and had arrived at the perfect way to get rid of him and deal a serious blow to all Squibs once and for all. Exile in Wales was not enough, apparently. Azkaban and the Dementor’s Kiss were what he sought for his filthy Squib brother, who’d had the temerity to defy the terms of his exile and campaign right out in the open for the rights of utter failures like himself, using only a pseudonym and an altered appearance as a shield. For his part, Shacklebolt was far too soft on Squibs and Muggleborns, too, for that matter. For the good of wizardkind, he and his liberal policies and attitudes needed to go. The ends justified the means, after all, especially in this instance. There was filth in the Ministry and it needed purging. Carmody would be its saviour. Once Shacklebolt was gone, a right-thinking individual would take his place and restore wizarding society to its former glory. The Squibs’ rights movement would have been crushed. And Richard Carmody would be no more, not even a distant memory. 

Those first days of publication were frantically busy for Hermione, who was writing at an insane pace. There were three installments so far, with a fourth taking shape as events unfolded. More and more interrogations and confessions resulted in a stunning exposé, revealing the guilt of nearly all the people Richard Carmody, as Artemius Branwood, had named and then some, including six members of the Wizengamot and seven Ministry officials. They were promptly stripped of their honours and powers and placed under arrest. The charges against the entire group included attempted murder, arson, witness tampering, bribery, blackmail, collusion, and conspiracy. The only one spared was Bertram Bexley. It was all anyone could talk about.

After a time in St. Mungo’s, Artemius Branwood returned to Wales, but as Richard Carmody. He was grieved, but not really surprised, to learn that he’d been so dreadfully betrayed by his own brother. He slowly regained his health, and with that, his commitment to his cause was revitalised as well.  
  
  
  
  



	7. Epilogue

Late October  
The Daily Prophet offices

The uproar had calmed a bit, finally. The final installment of the initial series had run the day before. There was still a lot of buzz in the streets, of course, but it was beginning to dissipate, the sense of shock beginning to wear off just a bit, as it always does when shocking news becomes the norm. No doubt it would flare up again when the trials were over and sentencing began, but even by then, it would already be verging on old hat.

It was six o’clock. Already, the nights were drawing in earlier and earlier. Hermione Granger slipped the last of her paperwork into her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. She turned to take a last look at her office, the space where so many productive and gratifying hours of her life had been spent, turned off the lights, and pulled the door closed. 

_“Colloportus,”_ she said softly, touching the door with the tip of her wand.

With that, she walked sedately but with a clear sense of purpose to the office of her boss. The lights were still on, no great surprise. He was invariably the last to leave. If she were a betting woman, she’d put money on the likelihood of Thai takeaway containers and empty coffee cups littering his desk, along with a nest of papers and books in organised chaos. Late enough, and a bottle of Ogden’s Old would make its appearance from the back of the bottom file drawer.

Knocking carefully, she pushed open the door and peered inside. Draco was there, legs stretched out on the desk as usual, eyes closed. He appeared to be asleep, but she knew better. 

“Ahem,” she said, clearing her throat loudly.

The only things that moved were his eyes, which opened into two narrow slits as he peered at her.

“I’m off, then,” she began. “I’ll… I’ll pick up the rest of my things in the morning.”

“Okay,” he said agreeably.

“But of course… if there’s more to be done with the series, I’ll certainly…” 

“Understood. I’ll let you know.” He continued to regard her with pleasantly cool detachment, though there was a certain palpable tension behind the nonchalance.

Biting her lip, Hermione turned to leave, hesitated for several seconds, and then stopped completely, her back to him. Thrusting her hand into her purse, she rummaged around and then her hand re-emerged, fingers closed around something that glinted when it caught the light.

Turning to face him again, she set the object down on his desk. It was a single Galleon.

Draco looked at it quizzically for a long moment and then his gaze moved to her face. 

“What’s this for?” he began, and then the words died away as understanding dawned. A slow smile began in his eyes and worked its way down to his mouth. The bet. She was paying up. “I see.”

“I’d like to stay,” Hermione said quietly, “if that’s all right.”

“What about your wedding? Your house with the white picket fence and all the rest of it? Your passel of little Weasleys?”

“Ron and I broke up a week ago. It was a mutual decision, and a long time coming, if I’m honest. He got fed up. I wasn’t what he wanted, not really. He knows that now. And I… well, I got tired of his disapproval. He didn’t understand me at all. In the end, it just wasn’t on the cards for Ron and me. It never really was. It’s okay, though. It’s better this way.” 

“Was it difficult?”

She nodded, and he could see the remnants of pain in her eyes. “It wasn’t… pleasant. I’ll just say that much. But it’s over now. Done. And I’m glad.” She looked genuinely relieved and he knew she was telling the whole truth.

Suddenly, the air in the room felt a lot lighter. Draco got to his feet and went to Hermione, taking her hands in his. They were warm and small and very soft, and they fit neatly into his own, just the way he remembered them.

“It’s more than all right,” he told her, his face very close to hers now, close enough that he could smell that lovely vanilla in her hair. His lips brushed the tip of her ear and he felt her shiver. “Do you think you and I might have another go? Since you’ve decided to stay, that is.”

Hermione’s toes curled in delicious anticipation as his lips captured her ear lobe. “Can you work for only twenty-three hours and not all twenty-four?” she whispered.

“I think I can manage that.” He smiled into her hair and resumed his attentions, moving to plant butterfly kisses on the smooth skin of her neck. “Maybe even just twenty.”

“That would be nice,” she murmured, lifting her chin so that her mouth was very close to his. 

“Not as nice as this,” he whispered, and then he kissed her. It was a kiss three years in the making, and all the sweeter for that.

The wedding announcement in the paper six months later was brief. No photos, not a lot of hoopla. It was almost an afterthought, but the bride wanted some mention, at least, as a remembrance. The clipping sat in a small, elegant frame on the mantel in their sitting room, right next to the award for excellence she’d garnered for her series on corruption in the Ministry and its sister piece, an in-depth study of Squib persecution over the centuries.

For his part, the groom was almost too busy to notice the wedding announcement when it was published. There were deadlines to meet and neophyte reporters who didn’t know their arses from their elbows and needed constant supervision. He and his new-ish wife often flew past each other in the corridors, pausing in their busy day just long enough for a hurried kiss and a work update. At home, however, they managed to make time for more. A lot more.

Which eventually warranted an announcement of a wholly different sort. This one came with photos.  
  
  
  
  


_FIN_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/48770194118/in/album-72157711002564423/)

Agnieszka 

  
  
  


[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/48770528411/in/album-72157711002564423/)

Pyewacket 

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks, as always, to my lovely and brilliant beta and friend, mister_otter. Her unerring ear, enthusiasm, and keen instincts for what works are my rock, and I appreciate them and her more than I can say. 
> 
> In “His Girl Friday,” Walter Burns is a driven, ambitious, canny newspaper editor ready to do virtually anything for a story. His brilliant star reporter, Hildy Johnson, is also his ex-wife. After years of chasing down stories, she has decided to quit the crazy newspaper business in favor of a more normal life with an ordinary, nice guy. Walter is determined not to let that happen, for personal reasons as well as professional ones. Comedy ensues. My take is a bit darker, albeit framed by the same basic bones as the original.  
  
The villages of Cynwyl Elfed and Bronwydd in Carmarthenshire, Wales, are real. The Blue Bell Inn is also real, as is Black Bomber cheese. It's a product of the region and quite delicious.
> 
> Aunt Willa's cats' names have magical histories. The name Pyewacket pays homage to the 1958 rom-com film "Bell, Book, and Candle," about witches living in New York City. Pyewacket was the lead character's cat and trusted familiar. Agnieszka is the name of a powerful young witch who comes into her own in the novel UPROOTED, by Naomi Novik. She was one half of my chosen couple in Round 9 of the Dramione Couples Remix, in my fic entitled ENTANGLEMENTS.


End file.
